TALES FROM DICKENS 



TALES 
FROM DICKENS 



By 

HALLIE ERMINIE RIVES 

Author of 

The Castaway, Hearts Courageous 

A Furnace of Earth, etc. 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 

REGINALD B. BIRCH 



INDIANAPOLIS 
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



Copyright 1905 
The Bobbs-Merrill Company 



November 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

DEC 5 1905 

^^Copyrljrht Entry 
CLASS ex. XXc, No. 



-Pl?^^-^ 



r> 




-4 



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David Copperfield and his friend, Mr. Micawher St'e page j 1 2 



To 
GEORGE BAKER ROBBINS, Jr, 



CONTENTS 



CHARLES DICKENS i 

THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 

I Little Nell '19 

II The Wanderers 26 

III The Search 35 

OLIVER TWIST 

I How Oliver Came to London and What He Found There 49 

II Oliver's Adventures 58 

III How Everything Turned Out Right for Oliver 

in the End 65 

BARNABY RUDGE 

I Barnaby's Boyhood 77 

II The Mysterious Stranger and Who He Was . , 83 

III Barnaby Gets Into Trouble 89 

IV Barnaby Prospers at Last 95 

DAVID COPPERFIELD 

I David's Early Ups and Dor'ns 105 

II Little Em'ly 115 

III David and His Child-Wife 120 

IV David Finds All Well at Last 124 

GREAT EXPECTATIONS 

I Pip and the Convict 131 

II The Queer Miss Havisham 138 

III Pip Discovers His Benefactor 147 

IV Pip Comes to Himself 152 

NICHOLAS NICKLEBY 

I Nicholas at Dotheboys Hall ...... 161 

II Nicholas Becomes an Actor 167 

III Nicholas Comes to Kate's Rescue .... 171 

IV What Happened to Everybody 175 



CONTENTS— Continued 

DOMBEY AND SON 

I Little Paul 183 

II How Florence Lost Her Father 191 

III How Florence Reached a Refuge 199 

IV How Florence Found Her Father at Last . . . 203 

THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

I The Pickwickians Begin Their Adventures. They Meet 

Mr. Alfred Jingle, and Winkle Is Involved in a Duel 213 
II Tupman Has a Love-A£fair With a Spinster, and the 

Pickwickians Find Out the Real Character of Jingle 218 

III Mr. Pickwick Has an Interesting Scene With Mrs. 

Bardell, His Housekeeper. Further Pursuit of Jingle 
Leads to an Adventure at a Young Ladies' Board- 
ing School ... 224 

IV Sam Weller Meets His Father, and the Pursuit of 

Jingle Is Continued. Mr. Pickwick Makes a Strange 
Call on a Middle-Aged Lady in Yellow Curl Papers 230 
V The Pickwickians Find Themselves in the Grasp of 
the Law. The Final Exposure of Jingle, and a 
Christmas Merrymaking 233 

VI The Celebrated Case of Bardell Against Pickwick. 
Sergeant Buzfuz's Speech and an Unexpected Ver- 
dict 238 

VII Winkle Has an Exciting Adventure With Mr. Dowler, 
and With the Aid of Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller 
Discovers the Whereabouts of Miso Arabella Allen 242 
VIII Mr. Pickwick's Experiences in the Debtors' Prison, 
Where He Finds an Old Enemy and Heaps Coals 
of Fire on the Head of Mrs. Bardell .... 248 

IX Snodgrass Gets Into Difficulties, But Wins His Lady- 
Love. The Adventures of the Pickwickians Come 
to an End 252 

LITTLE DORRIT 

I How Arthur Came Home from China .... 261 

266 

274 
280 
284 



II The Child of the Marshalsea 

III What Riches Brought to the Dorrits 

IV What Happened to Arthur Clennam 
V "All's Well That Ends Well" 



CONTENTS-Continued 

MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT 

I How Martin Left England 295 

II Pecksniff and Old Chuzzlewit 302 

III Jonas Gets Rid of an Enemy 308 

IV What Came of Martin's Trip to America . . . 313 
V Old Chuzzlewit's Plot Succeeds 318 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 

I What Happened to John Harmon . 
II Lizzie Hexam and the Dolls' Dressmaker 

III The Rise and Fall of Silas Wegg . 

IV Bella and the Golden Dustman 

V The End of the Story .... 



325 
332 
337 
343 
348 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES 

I How Lucie Found a Father 357 

II Darnay Caught in the Net 367 

III Sydney Carton's Sacrifice 375 

BLEAK HOUSE 

I The Court of Chancery 383 

II Lady Dedlock's Secret 390 

III Little Joe Plays a Part 398 

IV Esther Becomes the Mistress of Bleak House . . 405 

HARD TIMES 

I Mr. Gradgrind and His "System" 413 

II The Robbery of Bounderby's Bank .... 420 

III Harthouse's Plan Fails 427 

IV Stephen's Return 432 

THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD 

I John Jasper 441 

II The Coming of Neville Landless 444 

III The Choirmaster's Dinner 449 

IV Jasper Shows His Teeth 455 

INDEX TO CHARACTERS 463 



TALES FROM DICKENS 



CHARLES DICKENS 

Charles John Huffham Dickens, the master 
story-teller, was born in Landport, England, Feb- 
ruary 7, 1812. His father was a clerk in one of the 
offices of the Navy, and he was one of eight chil- 
dren. 

When he was four years old, his father moved to 
the town of Chatham, near the old city of 
Rochester. Round about are chalk hills, green 
lanes, forests and marshes, and amid such scenes 
the little Charles's genius first began to show it- 
self. 

He did not like the rougher sports of his school- 
fellows and preferred to amuse himself in his own 
way, or to wander about with his older sister, 
Fanny, whom he especially loved. They loved to 
watch the stars together, and there was one par- 
ticular star which they used to pretend was their 
own. People called him a "very queer small boy" 
because he was always thinking or reading instead 
of playing. The children of the neighborhood 
would gather around him to listen while he told 
them stories or sang comic songs to them, and 
when he was only eight years old he taught them 
to act in plays which he invented. He was fond of 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

reading books of travel, and most of all he loved 
The Arabian Nights and Robinson Crusoe. 

He had a great affection for Chatham and 
Rochester, and after he began to write stories that 
w^ere printed, he often used to put these places 
into them. It was at Chatham that poor little 
David in the story, David Copperfield, lay down 
to sleep when he was running away from London 
to find his aunt. Miss Betsy Trotwood. It was 
to Rochester that Mr. Pickwick in Pickwick 
Papers, rode with Jingle. Rochester was really 
the "Cloisterham" where the wicked choir master, 
John Jasper, killed his nephew, in The Mystery of 
Edwin Drood. And it was in those very marshes 
near by, that Magwitch, the escaped convict in 
Great Expectations, so frightened little Pip. It 
is easy to see that the young Charles Dickens noted 
carefully and remembered everything he saw, and 
this habit was of great use to him all his life. 

These happy years were not to last long. When 
he was nine years old, his father became poor and 
the family was obliged to move to London, where 
it lived in a shabby house in a poor suburb. Be- 
fore another year had passed, his father was put 
into prison for debt — the same prison in which 
Littile Dorrit, in the story of that name, grew up. 
A very bitter period followed for the solitary ten- 
year-old boy — a time in which, he long afterward 
wrote, "but for the mercy of God, he might easily 
have become, for any care that was taken of him, a 



CHARLES DICKENS 

little robber or a little vagabond." The earlier 
history of David in David Copperfield is really 
and truly a history of the real Charles Dickens 
in London. He was left to the city streets, or 
to earn a hard and scanty living in a dirty v\^are- 
house, by pasting labels on pots of blacking. All 
of this wretched experience he has written in 
David Copperfield, and the sad scenes of the 
debtors' prison he has put into Pickwick Papers 
and into Little Dorrit. Even Mrs. Pipchin, of 
whom he told in Dombey and Son, and Mr. Mi- 
cawber in David Copperfield, were real people 
whom he knew in these years of poverty and 
despair. Dickens's life at this time was so miser- 
able that always afterward he dreaded to speak of 
it, and never could bear even to walk in the street 
where the blacking warehouse of his boyhood had 
stood. 

Better days, however, came at last. He was able 
to begin school again, and though the head-master 
was ignorant and brutal (just such a one as Mr. 
Creakle in David Copperfield) yet Dickens prof- 
ited by such teaching as he received. 

After two or three years of school, he found em- 
ployment as clerk in a lawyer's office. This did not 
content him and he made up his mind to learn to 
write shorthand so as to become a reporter, in the 
Houses of Parliament, for a newspaper. This was 
by no means an easy task. But Dickens had great 
strength of will and a determination to do well 

3 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

whatever he did at all, and he succeeded, just as 
David Copperfield did in the story. 

And like the latter, too, about this time Dickens 
fell in love. He did not marry on this occasion, 
as did David, but how much he was in love one 
may see by the story of David's Dora. 

The theater had always a great attraction for 
Dickens. Throughout his life he loved to act in 
plays got up and often written, too, by himself and 
his friends. Some of his early experiences of this 
kind he has told in the adventures of Nicholas 
Nickleby at Mr. Crummles's theater. But his 
acting was for his own amusement, and it is doubt- 
ful if he ever thought seriously of adopting the 
stage as a profession. If he did, his success as a 
reporter soon determined him otherwise. 

When he was twenty-one he saw his first printed 
sketch in a monthly magazine. He had dropped it 
into a letter-box with mingled hope and fear, and 
read it now through tears of joy and pride. He 
followed this with others as successful, signed 
"Boz" — the child nickname of one of his younger 
brothers. This was his beginning. He was soon 
on the road to a comfortable fortune, and when 
at length Pickwick Papers appeared, Dickens's 
fame was assured. This was his first long story. It 
became, almost at once, the most popular book of 
its day, perhaps, indeed, the most popular book 
ever published in England. Soon after the appear- 
ance of its first chapters, Dickens married Miss 

4 



CHARLES DICKENS 

Catherine Hogarth, daughter of the editor of one 
of the London newspapers, who had helped him 
in his career. 

Many have tried to explain the marvelous pop- 
ularity of Pickwick Papers. Certainly its honest 
fun, its merriment. Its quaintness, good humor and 
charity appealed to every reader. More than all, 
it made people acquainted with a new company of 
characters, none of whom had ever existed, or 
could ever exist, and yet whose manners and ap- 
pearance were pictured so really that they seemed 
to be actual persons whom one might meet and 
laugh with anywhere. 

With such a success, and the money it brought 
him, Dickens had leisure to begin the wonderful 
series of stories which endeared him to the whole 
English-speaking world, and made him the most 
famous author of his day. Oliver Twist came first, 
and it was followed by Nicholas Nickleby and 
The Old Curiosity Shop. 

In the first two of these stories one may see most 
clearly the principle that underlay almost all of 
Dickens's work. He was never content merely to 
tell an interesting story. He wrote with a pur- 
pose. In Oliver Twist that purpose was, first, to 
better the poorhouse system, and second, to show 
that even in the lowest and wickedest paths of 
life (the life wherein lived Fagin with his pupils 
in crime and Bill Sikes the brutal burglar) there 
could yet be found, as in the case of poor Nancy, 

5 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

real kindness and sacrifice. In Nicholas Nickleby 
the purpose was to show what terrible wrongs were 
done to children in country schools, numbers of 
which at that time were managed by men almost as 
cruel and inhuman as was Squeers in the story. It 
is good to learn that, as a result of this novel, an 
end was made of many such boys' schools. True 
artist as he was, Dickens seldom wrote without 
having in his mind the thought of showing some 
defect in the law, or some wrong condition of af- 
fairs which might be righted. No one could read 
Pickwick Papers or Little Dorrit without realiz- 
ing how much wrong and misery was caused by 
the law which made it possible to throw a man 
into prison for debt. Nor can one read Bleak 
House without seeing that the legal system which 
robbed quaint Miss Elite of her mind and kept 
poor Richard Carstone from his fortune till 
the fortune itself had disappeared, was a very 
wrong legal system indeed. Often, too, Dickens's 
stories are, in a sense, sermons against very human 
sins. In The Old Curiosity Shop it is the sin of 
gambling which brings about the death of Little 
Nell. In Great Expectatiotis it is the sin of pride 
which Pip has to fight. In Martin Chuzzlewit the 
evil and folly of selfishness is what Dickens had in 
mind. 

With his increasing wealth, Dickens had, of 
course, changed his manner of life. He lived part 
of the time in the country near London, in Brigh- 

6 



CHARLES DICKENS 

ton, in Dover, and in France and Italy. He liked 
best, however, a little English watering place 
called Broadstairs — a tiny fishing village, built 
on a cliff, with the sea rolling and dashing beneath 
it. In such a place he felt that he could write best, 
but he greatly missed his London friends. He used 
to say that being without them was "like losing his 
arms and legs." 

The first great grief of his life came to him at 
this time, in the death of his wife's sister, Mary 
Hogarth, a gentle, lovable girl of seventeen. No 
sorrow ever touched him as this did. "After she 
died," he wrote years afterward, "I dreamed of 
her every night for many weeks, and always with a 
kind of quiet happiness, so that I never lay down 
at night without a hope of the vision coming 
back." Hers was the character he drew in Little 
Nell in The Old Curiosity Shop. When he came 
to the part of the story which tells of Little Nell's 
death, he could scarcely write the chapter. When 
he ended it he said, "It seems as though dear Mary 
died but yesterday." 

When he was less than thirty, Dickens was in- 
vited to visit Scotland, and there he received his 
first great national tribute. A public banquet was 
given him in Edinburgh, and he was much sought 
after and entertained. Up to this time he had 
never seen the United States; he decided now to 
visit this country and meet his American readers 
face to face. 

7 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

He landed at Boston accompanied by his wife, 
in 1842, and visited many of the greater cities of 
the Eastern states. Everywhere he was counted 
the guest of the nation, and the four months of 
his stay were one continual welcome. Unfortu- 
nately, however, Dickens had taken a dislike to 
American ways, and this dislike appeared in many 
things he wrote after his return to England. The 
pictures he drew of American life in Martin 
Chuzzlewtt were both unjust and untrue, and 
made him for a time lose a large part of the good 
opinion which American readers had had for him. 
Dickens soon came to regret the writing of these 
chapters, and when, twenty-five years later, he vis- 
ited the United States a second time, he did all in 
his power to show his kindly feeling, and America 
admired and loved him so much that it gradually 
forgot the incident in the great pleasure with 
which it read his stories. 

Dickens was a very active man, and his life was 
simple and full of work and exercise. He rose 
early and almost every day might have been seen 
tramping for miles along the country roads, or 
riding horseback with his dogs racing after him. 
He liked best to wander along the cliffs or across 
the downs by the sea. When he was in London 
he often walked the streets half the night, think- 
ing out his stories, or searching for the odd char- 
acters which he put in them. This natural activ- 
ity and restlessness even led him sometimes to 



CHARLES DICKENS 

make political speeches, and finally to the estab- 
lishment of a new London newspaper — the Daily 
News — of which he was the first editor. Before 
this, he had started a weekly journal, in which sev- 
eral of his stories had appeared, but it had not 
been very successful. It was not long before he 
withdrew also from this second venture. 

In the meantime he had met with both joy and 
sorrow. Several children had been born to him. 
His much loved sister, his father, and his own lit- 
tle daughter, the youngest of his family, had died. 
These sorrows made him throw himself into his 
work with greater earnestness. He even found 
leisure to organize a theatrical company (in which 
he himself acted with a number of other famous 
writers of the time), which gave several plays for 
the benefit of charity. One of these was performed 
before Queen Victoria. 

People have often wondered how Dickens found 
time to accomplish so many different things. One 
of the secrets of this, no doubt, was his love of 
order. He was the most systematic of men. Every- 
thing he did "went like clockwork," and he 
prided himself on his punctuality. He could not 
work in a room unless everything in it was in its 
proper place. As a consequence of this habit of 
regularity, he never wasted time. 

The work of editorship was very pleasant to 
Dickens, and scarcely three years after his leaving 
the Daily News he began the publication of a new 
9 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

magazine which he called Household Words. 
His aim was to make it cheerful, useful and at the 
same time cheap, so that the poor could afford to 
buy it as well as the rich. His own story, Hard 
Times, first appeared in this, with the earliest 
work of more than one writer who later became 
celebrated. Dickens loved to encourage young 
writers, and would just as quickly accept a good 
story or poem from an unknown author as from 
the most famous. 

It was while engaged in this work that Dickens 
wrote the best one of all his tales — David Copper- 
field, the one which is in so large a part the history 
of his own early life. 

This book brought Dickens to the height of his 
career. He was now both famous and rich. He 
bought a house on Gad's Hill — a place near 
Chatham, where he had spent the happiest part of 
his childhood — and settled down to a life of com- 
fort and labor. When he was a little boy his father 
had pointed out this fine house to him, and told 
him he rtiight even come to live there some day, if 
he were very persevering and worked hard. And 
so, indeed, it had proved. 

Perhaps it is in connection with this house on 
Gad's Hill that the world oftenest remembers 
Dickens now. Everyone, old and young through- 
out the neighborhood, liked him. Children, dogs 
and horses were his friends. His hand was open for 
charity, and he was always the champion of the 



CHARLES DICKENS 

poor, the helpless and the outcast. Everyone, he 
thought, had some good in him, and in all he met 
he was on the lookout to find it. The great pur- 
pose underneath all his writings was after all to 
teach that every man and woman, however de- 
graded, has his or her better side. So earnest was 
he in this that he was not pleased at all when a per- 
son praised one of his stories, unless the other 
showed that he had grasped the lesson that lay be- 
neath it. The text of Dickens's whole life and 
work is best expressed in his own words: "I hope 
to do some solid good, and I mean to be as cheery 
and pleasant as I can." The wrongs and sufferings 
of the young especially appealed to him, and per- 
haps the most beautiful speech he ever made was 
one asking for money for the support of the Lon- 
don Hospital for Sick Children. He spoke often 
in behalf of workingmen, .and once he spoke for 
the benefit of a company of poor actors, when, un- 
known to him, a little child of his own was lying 
dead at home. 

With such a tender heart for all the world, he 
was more than an affectionate father to his own 
children, and gave much thought to their hap- 
piness and education. In order that they should 
properly learn of their own country, he went to 
the labor of preparing a Child's History of Eng- 
land for them, and at another time he wrote out 
the story of the Gospels, to help them in their 
study of the New Testament. As the years went by, 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

his letters to his oldest son told of his own work 
and plans. When his youngest son sailed away to 
live in Australia, he wrote: "Poor Plorn is gone. 
It was a hard parting at the last. He seemed to 
me to become once more my youngest and favorite 
child as the day drew near, and I did not think I 
could have been so shaken." 

When he moved to Gad's Hill it seemed as 
though Dickens had gained almost all of the 
things men strive most for. But he was not to be 
happy there — nor, perhaps, was he ever again to 
be really happy anywhere. He and his wife were 
very different in all their tastes and habits, and 
had never loved each other as well as people 
should when they marry. Perhaps, after all, it 
would have been better if in his youth he had mar- 
ried his Dora — the one whom he had pictured in 
the love-story of David Copperfield and his child- 
wife. But, however this may be, Dickens and his 
wife had not lived happily together, and now de- 
cided to part, and from that time, though they 
wrote to each other, he never saw her again. It 
is sad to reflect that he who has painted so beauti- 
fully for others the joys and sorrows of perfect 
love and home, was himself destined to know 
neither. 

The years that followed this separation were 
years of constant labor for Dickens. His restless- 
ness, perhaps also his lack of happiness, drove him 
to work without rest. He wrote to a friend: "I am 



4 



CHARLES DICKENS 

quite confident I should rust, break and die if I 
spared myself. Much better to die doing." The 
idea of giving public readings from his stories sug- 
gested itself to him, and he was soon engaged in 
preparation. "I must do something," he wrote, 
"or I shall wear my heart aw^ay." That heart his 
physician had declared out of order, and this ef- 
fort was destined to wear it away in quite another 
sense, though for some time Dickens felt no ill ef- 
fects. 

He gave readings, not only in England, but also 
in Scotland and Ireland, and everywhere he met 
with enormous success. The first series was hardly 
over, when he was at work on a new story, and this 
was scarcely completed when he was planning 
more readings. The strain of several seasons of 
such work told on his health. A serious illness fol- 
lowed, and afterward he was troubled with an in- 
creasing lameness — the first real warning of the 
end. 

In spite of his weakness, he decided on another 
trip to America, and here, in 1867, he began a 
series of readings which left him in a far worse 
condition. Often at the close of an evening he 
would become so faint that he would have to lie 
down. He was unable to sleep and his appetite 
entirely failed him. Yet his wonderful determi- 
nation and energy made him able to complete 
the task. A great banquet of farewell was given 
to him in New York and he returned to England 
13 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

bearing the admiration and love of the whole 
American people. 

Before leaving England he had promised to 
give one other course of readings there, and this 
promise, after a summer's quiet at home, he at- 
tempted to fulfil. But he was too ill. He found 
himself for the first time in his life feeling, as he 
said, "giddy, jarred, shaken, faint, uncertain of 
voice and sight, and tread and touch, and dull of 
spirit." He was obliged to discontinue the course 
and to rest. 

This summer of 1869 — the last summer of his 
life — was a contented and even a happy one. At 
home, at first in London, and later in the house on 
Gad's Hill, surrounded by his children and by the 
friends he loved best, Dickens lived quietly, work- 
ing at his last story which his death was to leave 
for ever unfinished — The Mystery of Edwin 
Drood. He attempted one more series of readings, 
and with their close bade farewell for ever to his 
English audience. 

He was seen in public but a few times more — 
once at the last dinner party he ever attended, to 
meet the Prince of Wales and the King of the 
Belgians, and once when the Queen invited him to 
Buckingham Palace. Soon after, the end came. 

One day as he entered the house at Gad's Hill, 
he seemed tired and silent. As he sat down to din- 
ner all present noticed that he looked very ill. 
They begged him to lie down. "Yes, on the 



CHARLES DICKENS 

ground," he said — these were the last words he 
ever uttered — and as he spoke he slipped down 
upon the floor. 

He never fully recovered consciousness, and 
next day, June 9, 1870, Charles Dickens breathed 
his last. Five days later he was laid to rest in 
Westminster Abbey, where are buried so many of 
the greatest of England's dead. For days, thous- 
ands came to visit the spot, and rich and poor 
alike looked upon his grave with tears. 

Hallie Erminie Rives. 



15 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 

Published 1840 

Scene: London and Neighboring Towns 
Time: 1840 

CHARACTERS 

"Little Nell" An orphan girl 

Mr. Trent Her aged grandfather 

Proprietor of "The Old Curiosity Shop" 

"The Stranger" Mr. Trent's brother 

Christopher Nubbles Little Nell's friend and protector 

Known as "Kit" 

Quilp A dwarf 

Mrs. Quilp His wife 

Mrs. Jarley Proprietress of "Jarley's Waxwork" 

Brass A dishonest lawyer 

Sally Brass His sister 

Dick Swiveller Brass's clerk 



17 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 
I 

LITTLE NELL 

In a narrow side street in London there once 
stood a shabby building called The Old Curios- 
ity Shop, because all sorts of curious things were 
kept for sale there — such as rusty swords, china 
figures, quaint carvings and old-fashioned furni- 
ture. 

A little old man named Trent owned the shop, 
and he looked as old as anything in it. He was 
thin and bent, with long gray hair and bright blue 
eyes, and his face was wrinkled and full of care. 
He had an orphan grandchild who lived with 
him — a pretty little golden-haired girl whom 
every one called Little Nell, who kept the shop 
clean and neat and cooked the meals just as a 
grown woman would have done. She slept in a 
back room in a bed so small it might almost have 
been a fairy's. She lived a very lonely life, but 
she kept a cheerful face and did not complain. 

She had only one protector besides her grand- 
father, and that was a big, awkward boy nartied 
Christopher Nubbles, called Kit for short. He 
had a very large mouth and a turned-up nose, and 
19 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

when he spoke he had a habit of standing sidewise 
and tsvisting his head back over his shoulder. 
Everything he did seemed funny, and little Nell 
laughed at him all the while, though she loved 
him almost as much as she did her grandfather. 
He ran errands for them, and in the long winter 
evenings she used to teach him to read and write. 

Kit liked to be taught and even liked to be 
laughed at, and always ended by laughing himself, 
with his mouth wide open and his eyes shut. He 
was the best-natured lad in the world, and would 
have given his life to make little Nell happy. 

She was not as happy as she seemed to her 
grandfather's eyes. There was some mystery 
about the old man that she could not understand. 
Almost every night he left her to go to bed all 
alone in the shop, and went away and did not come 
back till sunrise, when the door-bell woke her and 
she let him in. 

And, too, he always talked of the gfeat fortune 
she was to have sometime — if only some mys- 
terious plan he was w^orking on turned out right — 
the carriages and fine frocks and jewels. But the 
plan seemed always to go wrong, and the poor old 
man grew sadder and sadder as he grew more 
feeble. 

Often at night little Nell sat at the upper win- 
dow, watching for him, crying, and fearing that 
he might die or lose his mind ; she never knew that 
Kit used to stand in the shadow of an archway op- 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 

posite and watch to see that no harm came to her, 
till she vanished and he knew she had gone to bed. 

What troubled little Nell most of all was a 
strange visitor her grandfather used to have. This 
was a hideous man named Quilp, with the body 
of a dwarf and the head of a giant. His black eyes 
were sharp and cunning, his face was always cov- 
ered with a stubby beard and he had a cruel smile 
that made him look like a panting dog. He had 
grizzled, tangled hair, crooked finger nails, and 
wore a dirty handkerchief tied around his neck, 
instead of a collar. He used to bring money to her 
grandfather, and little Nell more than once saw 
him look at her and at the contents of the shop in 
a gloating way that made her shiver. 

Indeed, everybody who ever met Quilp was 
afraid of him, and most afraid of all was his wife. 
He had a habit of drinking scalding tea and of 
eating boiled eggs, shell and all, that quite ter- 
rified her. Besides, he treated the poor woman 
cruelly. Sometimes, for instance, when she dis- 
pleased him, he made her sit bolt upright in a 
chair all night, without moving or going to bed, 
while he sat smoking and making faces at her. 

Little Nell often had to carry messages from her 
grandfather to the dwarf, and came to know that 
he had somehow fallen into Quilp's power. 

The fact was that the old man had been borrow- 
ing money from the dwarf for a long time, and 
had spent it on the great plan, which he had 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

thought sure to succeed, and he now owed the 
other much more than all the shop and every- 
thing in it was worth. 

Quilp had loaned the money because he thought 
when the w^onderful plan succeeded he would 
make the grandfather give him back very much 
more than he had loaned him. But when the old 
man continually wanted to borrow more money 
and yet paid none back, the dwarf grew sus- 
picious and tried hard to find out what the great 
plan w^as. To do this he used to question little 
Nell and try to persuade her to tell how her grand- 
father passed the time. 

She would never tell him anything, but one day, 
when she had brought a message to his house, the 
dwarf hid in a closet and listened while the child 
told his wife how her grandfather, every night 
after Quilp had brought him money, went out and 
did not come home till daybreak, and always 
sadly then. You see, little Nell was in such 
trouble that she had to tell somebody about it and 
ask advice, and the dwarf's wife had always been 
very kind to her. 

When Quilp heard the story he guessed the 
secret — that her grandfather, hoping to win more 
for little Nell, had gambled away all the money. 
He was full of rage and sent word that he would 
loan no more. 

The old man was in great grief at this. His 
mind had not been strong for a long time, or this 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 

foolish and wrong plan would never have misled 
him, and now, at the thought that he would have 
no more chance to win the fortune for his grand- 
child, he fell ill. The child did her best to com- 
fort him, but he told her that if Quilp deserted 
them they would be no better than beggars. 

"Let us be beggars then, and be happy," said 
little Nell, putting her arms around his neck. "I 
would rather beg than live as we do now. If you 
are sorrowful now, let me know it. If you are 
weaker, let me be your nurse. It breaks my heart 
to see you so and not to know why. Let us leave this 
place and sleep in the fields in the country and 
never think of money again, and I will beg for us 
both." 

Neither had heard the dwarf, who had stolen 
into the shop behind them. Little Nell shrieked 
when she saw him, and her grandfather sent her 
into her own room. 

''So that is the way all the money I have loaned 
you has gone!" sneered Quilp. "Your precious 
scheme to make a fortune was the gaming-table!" 

The old man cried out at this, trembling, that he 
had done it all for little Nell; that he had never 
staked a single penny for himself, or without pray- 
ing that it might win for her good. He told how 
he had begun gambling months before, knowing 
he must soon die, hoping thus to leave her enough 
to live on ; how, after losing all his own savings, he 
had borrowed and lost all that, too. And he 
23 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

begged the dwarf to loan him a little more so that 
he might tempt luck again. 

Any one but Quilp would have pitied the poor 
old man, but not he. He refused, and thinking of 
a lie which would make the other yet more miser- 
able, he told him as he left that it was Kit who had 
told him where the money was going. 

The first Kit knew of this was that night when 
little Nell came to tell him her grandfather was 
very ill, and that he raved continually against 
Kit so that he must never come to the shop again. 
Kit was stupefied at this, but there was no help 
for it, so little Nell went sorrowfully back alone. 

The Old Curiosity Shop belonged to the dwarf 
now and he at once moved into the parlor. He 
took little Nell's own bed for himself and she had 
to sleep on a pallet on the floor up stairs. She was 
busy nursing her grandfather, for he was very 
ill for some time, and she scarcely ever came down 
because she was so afraid of the dwarf. 

Quilp was waiting for the old man to die, think- 
ing that then he would have the shop for his own, 
and meantime he did a hundred disagreeable 
things, such as filling the house with strong to- 
bacco smoke from a big pipe he used all the time 
and driving every one away who came to ask how 
the sick man was. He even drove off Kit when 
he came below the window to beg little Nell to 
come and bring her grandfather to live at his own 

mother's house. 

24 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 

The old man would certainly have died if little 
Nell had not nursed him so faithfully, all alone, till 
he grew better and at length was able to sit up. 

But it was a bitter thing to live as they did, and 
one day little Nell begged her grandfather to 
come away with her — to wander anywhere in the 
world, only so it was under God's sky and away 
from every one that pursued them — and he agreed. 

So that night they dressed and stole down stairs 
very quietly in order not to waken the dwarf who 
was snoring frightfully in the back room, and went 
through the shop to the front door. The bolts 
were rusty and creaked loudly, and, worst of all, 
they found the key was not in the lock. Little Nell 
had to take off her shoes and creep into the back 
room to get it out of the dwarf's pocket. 

She was terribly frightened at the sight of 
Quilp, for he was having a bad dream, and was 
hanging so far out of bed that he was almost stand- 
ing on his head; his ugly mouth was wide open, 
and his breath came in a sort of growl. But she 
found the key at last, and they unlocked the door 
and came safely into the dark street. 

The old man did not know where to go, but little 
Nell took his hand and led him gently away. 



^5 



TALES FROM DICKENS 
II 

THE WANDERERS 

It was a bright June morning. They walked 
through many city streets, then through more scat- 
tered suburbs, and at last came to the open coun- 
try. That night they slept at a cottage where the 
people were kind to them, and all the next day 
they walked on and on. 

At sunset they stopped to rest in a churchyard, 
where two men were sitting patching a Punch- 
and-Judy show booth, while the figures of Punch, 
the doctor, the executioner and the devil were ly- 
ing on the grass waiting to be mended. 

The men were mending the dolls very badly, so 
little Nell took a needle and sewed them all neatly. 
They were delighted at this, and took the pair to 
the inn where they were to show the Punch-and- 
Judy, and there they found them a place to sleep 
in an empty loft. 

The next day the wanderers went on with the 
showmen. Whenever they came to a village, the 
booth was pitched and the show took place, and 
they never left a town without a pack of ragged 
children at their heels. The Punch-and-Judy show 
grew tiresome, but the company seemed better 
than none. Little Nell was weary with walking, 
but she tried to hide it from her grandfather. 
2a 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 

The inn at which they lodged the next night was 
full of showmen with trained dogs, conjurers and 
others, hurrying to a town where there was to be a 
fair with horse-races, to which the Punch-and- 
Judy partners were bound, and little Nell began 
to distrust their company. 

To tell the truth, the others believed the child 
and the old man wxre running away from their 
friends, and that a reward might be obtained for 
giving them up. The way in which the men 
watched them frightened little Nell, and when 
they reached the scene of the fair she had deter- 
mined to escape. 

It was the second day of the races before a 
chance came, and then, while the showmen's backs 
were turned, they slipped away in the crowd to 
the open fields again. 

These alarms and the exposure had begun to 
affect the old man. He seemed to understand that 
he was not wholly in his right mind. He was full 
of the fear that he would be taken from her and 
chained in a dungeon, and little Nell had great 
trouble in cheering him. 

At evening when they were both worn out, they 
came to a village where stood a cottage with the 
sign SCHOOL in big letters in its window. The 
pale old schoolmaster sat smoking in the garden. 
He was a sad, solitary man, and loved little Nell 
when he first saw her, because she was like a fa- 
vorite pupil he once had. He made them sleep in 
27 



TALES FROM DICKENS 



the school-room that night, and he begged them 
to stay longer next day, but little Nell was anxious 
to get as far as possible from London and from 
the dwarf, who she was all the time in fear might 
find them. So they bade the schoolmaster good-by 
and walked on. 

Another day's journey left them so exhausted 
they could scarcely keep moving. They had almost 
reached another village when they came to a tiny 
painted house on wheels with horses to draw it. 
At its door sat a stout lady wearing a large bonnet, 
taking tea with a big drum for a table. 

The lady, as it happened, had seen them at the 
fair, and had wondered then to see them in com- 
pany with a Punch-and-Judy show. Noticing how 
tired they were, she gave them tea and then took 
them into the wagon with her to help them on 
their way. 

The inside of the wagon was like a cozy room. 
It had a little bed in one end, and a kitchen in the 
other, and had two curtained windows. As the 
wheels rattled on the old man fell asleep, and the 
stout lady made little Nell sit by her and talk. In 
the wagon was a big canvas sign that read : 



JARLEY'S WAXWORK 

ONE HUNDRED FIGURES 

THE FULL SIZE OF LIFE 

NOW EXHIBITED WITHIN 



28 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 

"I am Mrs. Jarley," the woman said, "and my 
waxwork is gone to the next town, where it is to be 
exhibited." She thought little Nell and her grand- 
father were in the show business, too, and when 
she found they were not, that they had no home, 
and did not even know where they were going, she 
held up her hands in astonishment. 

But it was easy to see that they were not ordi- 
nary beggars, and she was kind-hearted and 
wanted to help them. So, after much thought, she 
asked little Nell if they would take a situation 
with her. She explained that the child's duty 
would be to point out the wax figures to the vis- 
itors and tell their names, while her grandfather 
could help dust them. 

They accepted this offer very thankfully (for 
almost all the money they had brought was now 
spent), and when the wagon arrived at the place 
of exhibition and the waxwork had been set up, 
Mrs. Jarley put a long wand in little Nell's hand 
and taught her to point out each figure and de- 
scribe it: 

"This, ladies and gentlemen," little Nell learned 
to say, "is Jasper Packlemerton, who murdered 
fourteen wives by tickling the soles of their feet," 
or, "this is Queen Elizabeth's maid of honor, who 
died from pricking her finger while sewing on 
Sunday." 

She was quick to learn and soon became a great 
favorite with the visitors. Mrs. Jarley was kind, 

29 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

and but for the fact that her grandfather's mind 
failed more and more every day little Nell would 
have been quite happy. 

One evening the two walked into the country be- 
yond the town and a sudden thunder-storm arose. 
They took shelter at an inn on the highroad, and 
while they waited there some rough men began a 
noisy game of cards behind a screen. 

The talk and the chink of the money roused the 
old man's failing senses. He imagined himself 
still gambling to win the old fortune for little 
Nell. He made her give him the money she had 
earned from the waxwork, joined the gamblers 
and in a few hours had lost it all. His insanity 
had made him forget the presence of the child he 
so loved, and when the game was done it was too 
late to leave the inn that night. 

Little Nell had now only one piece of money 
left, a gold piece sewed in her dress. This she had 
to change into silver and to pay a part for their 
lodging. When she was abed she could not sleep 
for fear of the wicked men she had seen gambling. 

When at last she fell asleep she waked suddenly 
to see a figure in the room. She was too frightened 
to scream, and lay very still and trembled. The 
robber searched her clothing, took the rest of the 
money and went out. She was dreadfully afraid 
he might return to harm her. If she could get to 
her grandfather, she thought, she would be safe. 

She opened the door softly, and in the moonlight 
30 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 

saw the figure entering the old man's room. She 
caught a view of his face and then she knew that 
the figure was her own grandfather, and that, 
crazed by the gambling scene, he himself had 
robbed her! 

All that night little Nell lay and cried. She 
knew, to be sure, that her grandfather was not a 
thief and that he did not know what he was doing 
when he stole her money; but she knew, too, that 
if people found out he was crazy they would take 
him away from her and shut him up where she 
could not be with him, and of this she could not 
bear to think. 

The next day, when they had gone back to the 
waxwork, she was in even greater terror for fear 
he should rob Mrs. Jarley, their benefactress. So, 
to lessen the chance of this, each day she gave 
him every penny she earned. This, she soon knew, 
he gambled away, for often he was out all night, 
and even seemed to shun her; so she was sad and 
took many long walks alone through the fields. 

One evening it happened that she passed a 
meadow where, beside a hedge, a fire was burning, 
with three men sitting and lying around it. She 
was' in the shadow and they did not see her. One, 
she saw, was her grandfather, and the others were 
the gamblers with whom he had played at the inn 
on the night of the storm. 

Little Nell crept close. They were tempting 
the poor daft old man to steal the money from 
31 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Mrs. Jarley's strong box, and while she listened he 
consented. 

She ran home in terrible grief. She tried to 
sleep, but could not. At last she could bear it no 
longer. She went to the old man's room and wak- 
ened him. 

"I have had a dreadful dream," she told him, "a 
dream of an old gray-haired man like you robbing 
people of their gold. I can not stay! I can not 
leave you here. We must go." 

To the crazy old man she seemed an angel. He 
dressed himself in fear, and with her little basket 
on her arm she led him out of the house, on, away 
from the town, into the country, far away from 
Mrs. Jarley, who had been so kind to them, and 
from the new home they had found. 

They climbed a high hill just as the sun was 
rising, and far behind them little Nell caught a 
last view of the village. As she looked back and 
thought how contented they had been there at first, 
and of the further wandering that lay before them 
now, poor little Nell burst into tears. 

But at length she bravely dried her tears lest 
they sadden her grandfather, and they went on. 
When the sun grew warm they fell asleep on the 
bank of the canal, and when they awoke in the 
afternoon some rough canal men took them aboard 
their dirty craft as far as the next town. 

The men were well-meaning enough and meant 
the travelers no harm, but after a while they be- 
32 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 

gan to drink and quarreled and fought among 
themselves, and little Nell sat all night, wet with 
the rain, and sang to them to quiet them. 

The place to which they finally came was a town 
of wretched workmen who toiled all day in iron 
furnaces for little wages, and were almost as mis- 
erable and hungry as the wanderers themselves. 
No one gave them anything, and they lived for 
three days with only two penny loaves to eat (for 
all their money was now gone), and slept at night 
in the ashes of some poor laborer's hut. 

The fourth day they dragged themselves into 
the country again. Little Nell's shoes were worn 
through to the bare ground, her feet were bleed- 
ing, her limbs ached and she was deadly faint. 
They begged, but no one would help them. 

The child's strength was almost gone, when they 
met a traveler who was reading in a book as he 
walked along. He looked up as they came near. 
It was the kind old schoolmaster in whose school 
they had slept before they met Mrs. Jarley in her 
house on wheels. When she saw him little Nell 
shrieked and fell unconscious at his feet. 

The schoolmaster carried her to an inn near by, 
where she was put to bed and doctored under his 
care, for she was very weak. She told him all the 
story of their wanderings, and he heard it with as- 
tonishment and wonder to find such a great heart 
and heroism in a child. 

He had been appointed schoolmaster, he told 

33 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

her, in another town, to which he was then on his 
way, and he declared they should go with him 
and he would care for them. He hired a farm 
wagon to carry little Nell, and he and the old man 
walked beside it, and so they came to their new 
place. 

Next door to the school-house was the church. 
A very old woman, nearly a hundred years old, 
had lived in a tenement near by to keep the keys 
and open the church for services. The old woman 
was now dead, and the schoolmaster went to the 
clergyman and asked that her place be given to 
the grandfather, so that he and little Nell could 
live in the house next to his own dwelling. 

The child sewed the tattered curtains and 
mended the worn carpet and the schoolmaster 
trimmed the long grass and trained the ivy before 
the door. In the evening a bright fire was kindled 
and they all three took their supper together, and 
then the schoolmaster said a prayer before they 
went gladly to bed. 

They were very happy in this new home. The 
old man lost the insane thirst for gaming and the 
mad look faded from his eyes, but poor little Nell 
grew paler and more fragile every day. The long 
days of hunger and nights of exposure had sowed 
the seeds of illness. 

The whole village soon grew to love her. Many 
came to visit her and the schoolmaster read to her 
each day, so that she was content even when she 

34 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 

could no longer walk abroad as she had always 
done. 

As she lay looking out at the peaceful church- 
yard, where so many whose lives were over lay 
sleeping, it seemed to her that the painful past 
was only an ugly vision. And at night she often 
dreamed of the roof opening and a column of 
bright faces, rising far into the sky, looking down 
on her asleep. The quiet spot outside remained 
the same, save that the air was full of music and a 
sound of angels' wings. 

So the weeks passed into winter, and though she 
came soon to know that she was not long for earth, 
she thought of death without regret and of heaven 
with joy. 

Ill 

THE SEARCH 

It is not to be supposed, of course, that the flight 
of little Nell and her grandfather from the Old 
Curiosity Shop was not noticed. All the time, 
while they were wandering about homeless and 
wretched, more than one went searching every- 
where for them without success. 

One of these was Quilp, the ugly dwarf. He had 
loaned the grandfather more money than the shop 
would bring, and he made up his mind now that 
the old man had a secret hoard somewhere, which 
might be his if he could find it. He soon 

35 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

learned that if Kit knew anything about it he 
would not tell, so he and his lawyer (a sleek, oily 
rascal named Brass) made many plans for finding 
them. But for a long time Quilp could get no 
trace. 

Another who tried to find them was a curious 
lodger who roomed in Brass's house. He seemed 
to have plenty of money but was very eccentric. 
Nobody knew even his name and so they called 
him The Stranger. 

He kept in his room a big box-like trunk, in 
which was a silver stove that he used to cook his 
meals. The stove had a lot of little openings. In 
one he would put an egg, in another some cofifee. In 
another a piece of meat and in the fourth some 
water. Then he would light a lamp that stood un- 
der it, and in five minutes the egg would be 
cooked, the cofifee boiled and the meat done — all 
ready to eat. 

He was the queerest sort of boarder! The 
strangest habit he had was this: He seemed to be 
very fond of Punch-and-Judy shows, and when- 
ever he heard one on the street he would run out 
without his hat, make the showmen perform in 
front of the house and then invite them to his 
rooms, where he would question them for a long 
time. This habit used to puzzle both Brass and 
Quilp, the dwarf, and they never could guess why 
he did it. 

The truth was, the mysterious Stranger was a 
36 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 

long-missing brother of little Nell's grandfather. 
A misunderstanding had come between them many 
years before when both were young men. The 
younger had become a traveler in many countries 
and had never seen his brother since. But he 
dreamed often of the days when they had been 
children and at last he forgot the thing that had 
driven them apart. He had come back now to 
England, a rich man, to find the other had van- 
ished with little Nell, his grandchild. He had 
soon learned the story of their misfortune and how 
the fear of Quilp had driven them away. After 
much inquiry he had discovered they had been 
seen with a Punch-and-Judy show and now he was 
trying to find the showmen. And finally, in this 
way, he did find the very same pair the wanderers 
had met! 

He learned from them all they could tell him — 
that the child and the old man had disappeared at 
the fair, and that since then (so they had heard) a 
pair resembling them had been seen with the Jar- 
ley waxwork exhibition. The Stranger easily dis- 
covered where Mrs. Jarley was, and determined to 
set out to her at once. But he remembered that his 
brother, little Nell's grandfather, could not be ex- 
pected to know him after all the years he had been 
gone, and as for little Nell herself, she had never 
seen him, and he was afraid if they heard a strange 
man had come for them they would take fright and 
run away again. So he tried to find some one they 

2,7 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

had loved to go with him to show that he intended 
only kindness. 

He was not long in hearing of Kit, who had 
found a situation as footman, and he gained his 
employer's leave to take the lad with him. When 
Kit learned that The Stranger had discovered 
where little Nell was he was overjoyed; but he 
knew he himself was not the one to go, because 
before they disappeared she had told him he must 
never come to the Old Curiosity Shop again and 
that her grandfather blamed him as the cause of 
their misfortune. But Kit promised the Stranger 
that his mother should go in his place, and went 
to tell her at once. 

Kit found his mother .was at church, but the 
matter was so urgent that he went straight to the 
pew and brought her out, which caused even the 
minister to pause in his sermon and made all the 
congregation look surprised. Kit took her home, 
packed her box and bundled her into the coach 
which the Stranger brought, and away they went 
to find the wanderers. 

Now Quilp had all along suspected that Kit and 
his mother knew something of their whereabouts, 
and he had made it his business to watch either one 
or the other. The dwarf, in fact, was in the church 
when Kit came for his mother, and he followed. 
When she left with the Stranger he took another 
coach and pursued, feeling certain he was on the 
right track. 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 

But they were all too late. When the Stranger 
found Mrs. Jarley next day she could only tell him 
that little Nell and her grandfather had disap- 
peared again, and he had to return with Kit's 
mother, much discouraged, to London. 

The part Kit had played in this made the dwarf 
hate him, if possible, more than ever, and he 
agreed to pay Brass, his rascally lawyer, to ruin 
the lad by making a false charge of theft against 
him. 

One day, when Kit came to Brass's house to see 
the Stranger, who lodged up stairs, the lawyer 
cunningly hid a five-pound note in the lad's hat 
and as soon as he left ran after him, seized him in 
the street and accused him of taking it from his 
office desk. 

Kit was arrested, and the note, of course, was 
found on his person. The evidence seemed so 
strong that the poor fellow was quickly tried, 
found guilty and sentenced to prison for a long 
time. 

All might have gone wrong but for a little maid- 
servant of Brass's, whom the lawyer had starved 
and mistreated for years. He used to keep her 
locked in the moldy cellar and gave her so little 
to eat that she would creep into the office at night 
(she had found a key that fitted the door) to pick 
up the bits of bread that Dick Swiveller, Brass's 
clerk, had left when he ate his luncheon. 

One night, while this little drudge was prowling 

39 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

about above stairs, she overheard Brass telling his 
sister, Sally (who was his partner and colder and 
crueler and more wicked even than he was), the 
trick he was going to play. After Kit was arrested 
she ran away from Brass's house and told her story 
to Kit's employer, who had all along believed in 
his innocence. 

Brass in the meantime had gone to Quilp to get 
his reward for this evil deed, but the terrible 
dwarf now only laughed at him and pretended to 
remember nothing at all about the bargain. 

This so enraged the lawyer that, when he was 
brought face to face with the little maid's evidence 
and found that he himself was caught, he made 
full confession of the part Quilp had played, and 
told the whole story to revenge himself on the 
dwarf. 

Officers were sent at once to arrest Quilp at a 
dingy dwelling on a wharf in the river where he 
often slept with the object of terrifying his wife by 
his long absences. Here he had set up the battered 
figurehead of a wrecked ship and, imagining that 
its face resembled that of Kit whom he so fiend- 
ishly hated, he used to amuse himself by screwing 
gimlets into its breast, sticking forks into its eyes 
and beating it with a poker. 

A few minutes before the officers arrived the 

dwarf received warning from Sally Brass, but he 

had no time to get away. When he heard the 

knocking on the gates and knew that the law he 

40 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 

had so long defied was at last upon him, he fell 
into a panic and did not know which way to turn. 
He tried to cover the light of the fire, but only suc- 
ceeded in upsetting the stove. Then he ran out of 
the house on to the dock in the darkness. 

It was a black, foggy night, and he could not 
see a foot before him. He thought he could climb 
over the wall to the next wharf and so escape, but 
in his fright he missed his way and fell over the 
edge of the platform into the swift-flowing river. 

He screamed in terror, but the water filled his 
throat and the knocking on the gates was so loud 
that no one heard him. The water swept him close 
to a ship, but its keel was smooth and slippery and 
there was nothing to cling to. He had been so 
wicked that he was afraid to die and he fought des- 
perately, but the rapid tide smothered his cries and 
dragged him down — to death. 

The waves threw his drowned body finally on 
the edge of a dismal swamp, in the red glare of 
the blazing ruin which the overturned stove that 
night made of the building in which he had 
framed his evil plots. And this was the end of 
Quilp, the dwarf. 

As for Kit, he found himself all at once not only 
free, but a hero. His employer came to the jail to 
tell him that he was free and that everyone knew 
now of his innocence, and they made him eat and 
drink, and everybody shook hands with him. Then 
he was put into a coach and they drove straight 
41 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

home, where his mother was waiting to kiss him 
and cry over him with joy. 

And last, but by no means least of all his new 
good fortune, he learned then that the Stranger 
who had been searching so long for little Nell and 
her grandfather had found certainly where they 
were and that Kit was to go with him and his em- 
ployer at once and bring them back again to Lon- 
don. 

They started the next day, and on the long road 
they talked much of little Nell and the strange 
chance by which the lost had been found. A gen- 
tleman who lived in the village to which they were 
now bound, who had himself been kind to the 
child and to the old man whom the new school- 
master had brought with him, had written of the 
pair to Kit's employer, and the letter had been the 
lost clue, so long sought, to their hiding-place. 

Snow began falling as the daylight wore away, 
and the coach wheels made no noise. All night 
and all the next day, they rode, and it was mid- 
night before they came to the town where the two 
wanderers had taken refuge. 

The village was very still, and the air was frosty 
and cold. Only a single light was to be seen, com- 
ing from a window beside a church. This was the 
house which the Stranger knew sheltered those 
they sought, but both he and Kit felt a strange fear 
as they saw that light — the only one in the whole 
village. 

42 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 

They left the driver to take the horses to the Inn 
and approached the building afoot. They went 
quite close and looked through the window. In 
the room an old man bent low over a fire crooning 
to himself, and Kit, seeing that it was his old mas- 
ter, opened the door, ran in, knelt by him and 
caught his hand. 

The old grandfather did not recognize Kit. He 
believed him a spirit, as he thought many spirits 
had talked to him that day. He was much changed, 
and it seemed as if some great blow or grief had 
crazed him. He had a dress of little Nell's in his 
hand and smoothed and patted it as he muttered 
that she had been asleep — asleep a long time now, 
and was marble cold and would not wake. 

"Her little homely dress!" he said. "And see 
here — these shoes — how worn they are! You see 
where her feet went bare upon the ground. They 
told me afterward that the stones had cut and 
bruised them. She never told me that. No, no, 
God bless her! And I have remembered since how 
she walked behind me, that I might not see how 
lame she was, but yet she had my hand in hers and 
seemed to lead me still." 

So he muttered on, and the cheeks of the others 
were wet with tears, for they had begun to under- 
stand the sad truth. 

Kit could not speak, but the Stranger did: "You 
speak of little Nell," he said. "Do you remerhber, 
long ago, another child, too, who loved you when 

43 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

you were a child yourself? Say that you had a 
brother, long forgotten, who now at last came back 
to you to be what you were then to him. Give me 
but one word, dear brother, to say you know me, 
and life will still be precious to us again." 

The old man shook his head, for grief had killed 
all memory. Pushing them aside, he went into the 
next room, calling little Nell's name softly as he 
went. 

They followed. Kit sobbed as they entered, for 
there on her bed little Nell lay dead. 

Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell! The school- 
master told them of her last hours. They had read 
and talked to her a while, and then she had sunk 
peacefully to sleep. They knew by what she said in 
her dreams that they were of her wanderings, and 
of the people who had helped them, for often she 
whispered, "God bless you." And she spoke once 
of beautiful music that was in the air. 

Opening her eyes at last, she begged that they 
would kiss her once again. That done, she turned 
to the old man with a lovely smile on her face — 
such, he said, as he had never seen — and threw 
both arms about his neck. They did not know at 
first that she was dead. 

They laid little Nell to rest the next day in the 
churchyard where she had so often sat. The old 
man never realized quite what had happened. He 
thought she would come back to him some day, and 
that then they would go away together. He used 

44 



THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 

to sit beside her grave and watch for her each 
afternoon. 

One day he did not return at the usual hour and 
they went to look for him. He was lying dead upon 
the stone. 

They buried him beside the child he had loved, 
and there in the churchyard where they had often 
talked together they both lie side by side. 

None of those who had known little Nell ever 
forgot her story. After the death of the old man, 
his brother, the Stranger who had sought them so 
long, traveled in the footsteps of the two wander- 
ers to search out and reward all who had been kind 
to them — Mrs. Jarley of the waxwork, the Punch- 
and-Judy showmen, he found them all. Even the 
rough canal boatmen were not forgotten. 

Kit's story got abroad and he found himself with 
hosts of friends, who gave him a good position and 
secured his mother from want. So that his greatest 
misfortune turned out, after all, to be his greatest 
good. 

The little maid whose evidence cleared Kit of 
the terrible charge against him lived to marry Dick 
Swiveller, the clerk of Brass, the lawyer, while 
meek Mrs. Quilp, after her husband's drowning, 
married a clever young man and lived a pleasant 
life on the dead dwarf's money. 

The fate of the others, whose wickedness has 
been a part of this story, was not so pleasant. The 
two gamblers who tempted the old man to steal 

45 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Mrs. Jarley's strong box were detected in another 
crime and sent to jail. Brass became a convict, con- 
demned to walk on a treadmill, chained to a long 
line of other evil men, and dragging wherever he 
went a heavy iron ball. After he was released he 
joined his wicked sister, Sally, and the two sank 
lower and lower till they might even be seen on 
dark nights on narrow London streets searching in 
refuse boxes for bits of food, like twin spirits of 
wickedness and crime. 

When Kit had grown to be a man and had chil- 
dren of his own, he often took them to the spot 
where stood what had been The Old Curiosity 
Shop and told them over and over the story of lit- 
tle Nell. And he always ended by saying that if 
they were good like her they might go some time 
where they could see and know her as he had done 
when he was a boy. 



46 



THE ADVENTURES OF OLIVER TWIST 

Published 1837 

Scene: London and Neighboring Towns 
Time: 1825 to 1837 

CHARACTERS 

Oliver Twist A foundling 

Mr. Bumble The master of the poorhouse 

Mrs. Bumble The mistress of the poorhouse 

Monks Oliver's half-brother and his enemy 

Mr. Brownlow Oliver's benefactor 

Mrs. Maylie Oliver's benefactress 

Miss Rose. Mrs. Maylie's adopted niece 

In reality Oliver's aunt 

Fagin A Jew 

Leader of a gang of thieves in London 

Bill Sikes A burglar 

Nancy Sikes's partner in crime 

"The Artful Dodger" A youthful pickpocket 



47 



OLIVER TWIST 



HOW OLIVER CAME TO LONDON AND WHAT HE 
FOUND THERE 

Oliver Twist was the son of a poor lady who was 
found lying in the street one day in an English vil- 
lage, almost starved and very ill. She had walked 
a long way, for her shoes were worn to pieces, but 
where she came from or where she was going no- 
body knew. As she had no money, she was taken to 
the poorhouse, where she died the next day with- 
out ^ven telling her name, leaving behind her only 
a gold locket, which was around her neck, and a 
baby. 

The locket fell into the hands of the mistress of 
the poorhouse, who was named Mrs. Bumble. It 
contained the dead mother's wedding-ring, and, as 
Mrs. Bumble was a dishonest woman, she hid both 
locket and ring, intending sometime to sell them. 

The baby was left, with no one to care for it, to 
grow up at the poorhouse with the other wretched 
orphan children, who wore calico dresses all alike 
and had little to eat and many whippings. 

Mr. Bumble, the master of the poorhouse, was a 
pompous, self-important bully who browbeat every 

49 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

one weaker than himself and scolded and cuffed 
the paupers to his heart's content. It was he who 
named the baby "Oliver Twist." He used to name 
all the babies as they came along, by the letters of 
the alphabet. The one before Oliver was named 
Swubble; then came Oliver with a T; the next 
would be Unwin, the next Vilkins, and so on down 
to Z. Then he would begin the alphabet all over 
again. 

Little Oliver, the baby, grew without any idea 
of who he was. When he was a year old he was sent 
to the poor-farm where an old woman took care 
of orphan children for a very small sum apiece 
each week. This money, which was paid by the 
town, was hardly enough to buy them food, but 
nevertheless the old woman took good care to save 
the bigger share for herself. 

He lived there till he was a pale, handsome boy 
of nine years, and then he was taken to the work- 
house, where, with many other boys of his own age 
or older, he had to work hard all day picking 
oakum. 

The boys had nothing but thin gruel for their 
meals, with an onion twice a week and half a roll 
on Sundays. They ate in a great stone hall, in one 
end of which stood the big copper of gruel which 
Mr. Bumble ladled out. Each boy got only one 
helping, and the bowls never needed washing, be- 
cause, when the meal was through, there was not a 
drop of gruel left in them. After each meal they 
so 



OLIVER TWIST 

all sat staring at the copper and sucking their fin- 
gers, but nobody dared ask for more. 

One day they felt so terribly hungry that one of 
the biggest boys said unless he got another helping 
of gruel he was afraid he would have to eat the boy 
who slept next him. The little boys all believed 
this and cast lots to see who should ask for more. 
It fell to Oliver Twist. 

So that night after supper, though he was dread- 
fully frightened, Oliver rose and went up to the 
end of the room and said to Mr. Bumble, "Please, 
sir, I want some more." 

Mr. Bumble was so surprised he turned pale. 
"What!" he gasped. 

"Please, sir," said Oliver again, "I want some 
more." 

Mr. Bumble picked up the ladle and struck 
Oliver on the head with it ; then he pounced on him 
and shook him. When he was tired shaking him, 
he dragged him away and shut him up in a dark 
room, where he stayed a whole week, and was only 
taken out once a day to be whipped. Then, to make 
an example of him, a notice was pasted on the gate 
of the workhouse offering a reward to anybody 
who would take poor Oliver away and do what he 
liked with him. 

The first one who came by was a middle-aged 
chimney-sweep, who wanted a boy to climb up the 
insides of chimneys and clean out the soot. . This 
was a dangerous thing to do, for sometimes the boys 

SI 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

who did it got burned or choked with the smoke, 
and when Oliver found what they were going to 
do with him and looked at the man's cruel face, 
he burst out crying, so that a kind-hearted magis- 
trate interfered and would not let the chimney- 
sweep have him. 

Mr. Bumble finally gave him to the village un- 
dertaker, and there he had to mind the shop and do 
all the chores. He slept under the counter among 
piles of empty coffins. The undertaker's wife beat 
him often, and whenever he was not at work he 
had to attend funerals, which was by no means 
amusing, so that he found life no better than it had 
been at the workhouse. The undertaker had an ap- 
prentice, too, who kicked him whenever he came 
near. 

All this wretchedness Oliver bore as well as he 
could, without complaining. But one day the cow- 
ardly apprentice began to say unkind things of 
Oliver's dead mother, and this he could not stand. 
His anger made him stronger even than his tor- 
mentor, though the latter was more than a head 
taller and much older, and he sprang upon him, 
caught him by the throat and, after shaking him till 
his teeth rattled, knocked him flat on the floor. 

The big bully screamed for help and cried that 
he was being murdered, so that the undertaker and 
his wife came running in. Oliver told them what 
the apprentice had said, but that made no differ- 
ence. The undertaker sent for Mr. Bumble, and 

52 



OLIVER TWIST 

between them they flogged him till he could hardly 
stand and sent him to bed without anything to eat. 

Till then Oliver had not shed a tear, but now, 
alone in the dark, he felt so miserable that he cried 
for a long time. 

There was nothing to do, he thought at last, but 
to run away. So he tied up his few belongings in 
a handkerchief and, waiting till the first beam of 
sunrise, he unbarred the door and ran away as fast 
as he could, through the town into the country. 

He hid behind hedges whenever he saw anybody, 
for fear the undertaker or Mr. Bumble were after 
him, and before long he found a road that he knew 
led to London. Oliver had never seen a city, but he 
thought where there were so many people there 
would certainly be something for a boy to do to 
earn his living, so he trudged stoutly on and before 
nightfall had walked twenty miles. He begged a 
crust of bread at a cottage and slept under a hay- 
rick. The next day and night he was so very hun- 
gry and cold that when morning came again he 
could scarcely walk at all. 

He sat down finally at the edge of a village, 
wondering whether he was going to die, when he 
saw coming along the queerest-looking boy. He 
was about Oliver's age, with a snub nose, bow legs 
and little sharp eyes. His face was very dirty and 
he wore a man's coat, whose ragged tails carne to 
his heels. 

The boy saw Oliver's plight and asked him what 

53 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

the matter was, mixing his words with such a lot 
of strange slang that Oliver could hardly under- 
stand him. When Oliver explained that he had 
been walking a number of days and was very 
hungry, the other took him to a shop near by, 
bought him some bread and ham, and watched him 
eat it with great attention, asking him many ques- 
tions — whether he had any money or knew any 
place in London where he could stay. Oliver an- 
swered no. 

"Don't fret about that," said the other. "I know 
a 'spectable old genelman as lives there wot'U give 
you lodgings for nothing if I interduce you." 

Oliver did not think his new host looked very 
respectable himself, b^t he thought it might be as 
well for him to know the old gentleman, particu- 
larly as he had nowhere else to go. So they set off. 

It was night when they reached London, and it 
was so big and crowded that Oliver kept close to 
his guide. He noticed,, however, that the streets 
they passed through were narrow and dirty and the 
houses old and hideously filthy. The people, too, 
seemed low and wretched. 

He was just wondering if he had not better run 
away when the boy pushed open a door, drew 
Oliver inside, up a broken stairway and into a back 
room 

Here, frying some sausages over a stove, was a 
shriveled old Jew in a greasy flannel gown. He was 
very ugly and his matted red hair hung down over 

54 



OLIVER TWIST 

his villainous face. In a corner stood a clothes- 
horse on which hung hundreds of silk handker- 
chiefs, and four or five boys, as dirty and oddly 
dressed as the one who had brought Oliver, sat 
about a table smoking pipes like rough, grown 
men. 

Oliver's guide introduced him to the Jew, whose 
name was Fagin, and the boys crowded around 
him, putting their hands into his pockets, which he 
thought a queer joke. Fagin grinned horribly as he 
shook hands with him and told him he was very 
welcome, which did not tend to reassure him, and 
then the sausages were passed around. The Jew 
gave Oliver a glass of something to drink, and as 
soon as he drank it he became very sleepy and knew 
nothing more till the following morning. 

The next few days Oliver saw much to wonder 
at. When he woke up, Fagin was sorting over a 
great box full of watches, which he hid away when 
he saw Oliver was looking. Every day the boy who 
had brought him there, whom they called "the Art- 
ful Dodger," came in and gave the Jew some 
pocketbooks and handkerchiefs. Oliver thought he 
must have made the pocketbooks, only they did not 
look new, and some seemed to have money in them. 
He noticed, too, that whenever the Artful Dodger 
came home empty-handed Fagin seemed angry and 
cuffed and kicked him and sent him to bed supper- 
less; but when he brought home a good number 
everything was very jolly. 

55 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Whenever there was nothing else to do, the old 
Jew played a very curious game with the boys. 
This was the way they played it: 

Fagin would put a snufif-box in one pocket, a 
watch in another and a handkerchief in a third; 
then he would walk about the room just as any old 
gentleman would walk about the street, stopping 
now and then, as if he were looking into shop-win- 
dows. All the time the boys followed him closely, 
sometimes treading on his toes or stumbling against 
him, and when this happened one of them would 
slip a hand into his pocket and take out either the 
watch or the snuff-box or the handkerchief. If the 
Jew felt a hand in his pocket he cried out which it 
was, and then the game began all over again. At 
last Fagin made Oliver try if he could take some- 
thing out of his pocket without his knowing it, and 
when Oliver succeeded he patted his head and 
seemed well pleased. 

But Oliver grew very tired of the dirty room and 
the same game. He longed for the open air and 
begged to be allowed to go out; so one day the Jew 
put him in charge of the Artful Dodger and they 
went upon the streets, Oliver wondering where in 
the world he was going to be taught to make pock- 
etbooks. 

He was on the point of asking, when the Artful 
Dodger signed to him to be silent, and slunk be- 
hind an old gentleman who was reading a book In 
front of a book-stall. You can imagine Oliver's 



OLIVER TWIST 

horror when he saw him thrust his hand into the 
old gentleman's pocket, draw out a silk handker- 
chief and run off at full speed. 

In an instant Oliver understood the mystery of 
the handkerchiefs, the watches, the purses and the 
curious game he had learned at Fagin's. He knew 
then that the Artful Dodger was a pickpocket. He 
was so frightened that for a minute he lost his wits 
and ran off as fast as he could go. 

Just then the old gentleman found his handker- 
chief was gone and, seeing Oliver running away, 
shouted "Stop thief!" which frightened the poor 
boy even more and made him run all the faster. 
Everybody joined the chase, and before he had 
gone far a burly fellow overtook Oliver and 
knocked him down. 

A policeman was at hand and he was dragged, 
more dead than alive, to the police court, followed 
by the angry old gentleman. 

The moment the latter saw the boy's face, how- 
ever, he could not believe it was the face of a thief, 
and refused to appear against him, but the magis- 
trate was in a bad humor and was about to sentence 
Oliver to prison, anyway, when the owner of the 
book-stall came hurrying in. He had seen the 
theft and knew Oliver was not guilty, so the magis- 
trate was obliged to let him go. 

But the terror and the blow he had received had 
been too much for Oliver. He fell down in a faint, 
and the old gentleman, whose name was Mr. 

57 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Brownlow, overcome with pity, put him into a 
coach and drove him to his own home, determined, 
if the boy had no parents, to adopt him as his own 
son. 

II 

OLIVER'S ADVENTURES 

While Oliver was resting in such good hands, 
very strange things were occurring in the house of 
Fagin. When the Artful Dodger told him of the 
arrest the Jew was full of anger. He had intended 
to make a clever thief of Oliver and compel him to 
bring him many stolen things ; now he had not only 
failed in this and lost the boy's help, but he was also 
afraid that Oliver would tell all about the wicked 
practices he had seen and show the officers where 
he had lived. This he thought was likely to hap- 
pen at any time, unless he could get the boy into his 
power again. 

Something had occurred, too, meantime, that 
made Fagin almost crazy with rage at losing him. 
It was this : A wicked man — so wicked that he was 
afraid of thunder — who went by the name of 
Monks, had come to him and told him he would 
pay a large sum of money if he could succeed in 
making Oliver a thief and so ruin his reputation 
and his good name. 

It was plain enough that for some reason the man 
hated Oliver, but, cunning as Fagin was, he would 
58 



OLIVER TWIST 

never have guessed why. For Monks was really 
Oliver's older half-brother! 

A little while before this story began, Oliver's 
father had been obliged to go on a trip to a foreign 
country, where he died very suddenly. But before 
he died he made a will, in which he left all his for- 
tune to be divided between the baby Oliver and his 
mother. He left only a small sum to his older son, 
because he knew that he was wicked, and did not 
deserve any. The will declared Oliver should have 
the money only on condition that he never stain his 
name with any act of meanness, dishonor, cow- 
ardice or wrong. If he did do this, then half the 
money was to go to the older son. The dying man 
also wrote a letter to Oliver's mother, telling her 
that he had made the will and that he was dying; 
but the older son, who was with him when he died, 
found the letter and destroyed it. 

So Oliver's poor mother, knowing nothing of all 
this, when his father did not come back, thought at 
last that he had deserted her, and in her shame stole 
away from her home, poor and ill-clad, to die 
finally in the poorhouse. 

The older brother, who had taken the name of 
Monks, hunted and hunted for them, because he 
hated Oliver on account of their father's will, and 
wanted to do him all the harm he could. He dis- 
covered that they had been taken into the poor- 
house, and went there, but this was after Oliver 
had run away. He found, however, to his satisfac- 

59 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

tion, that the boy knew nothing about his parent- 
age or his real name, and Monks made up his mind 
to prevent his ever learning. 

There was only one person who could have told 
Oliver, and that one was Mrs. Bumble. She knew 
through the locket she had kept, which had be- 
longed to Oliver's mother and which contained the 
dead woman's wedding-ring with her name en- 
graved inside it. When Mrs. Bumble heard that a 
man named Monks was searching for news of Oli- 
ver, she thought it a capital chance to make some 
money. She went, therefore, to Monks's house and 
sold the locket and ring to him. These, Monks 
thought, were the only proofs in the world that 
could ever show Oliver who he was, and to make it 
impossible for him ever to see them, he dropped 
them through a trap-door in his house down into 
the river, where they could never be found. 

But Monks did not give up searching for Oliver, 
and at last, on the very day that Oliver was arrested, 
he saw him coming from Fagin's house with the 
Artful Dodger. 

From his wonderful resemblance to their dead 
father, he guessed at once that Oliver was the 
half-brother whose very name he hated. Knowing 
the other now to be in London, Monks was afraid 
that by some accident he might yet find out what a 
fortune had been willed him. If he could only 
make Oliver dishonest, Monks reflected, half their 
father's fortune would become his own. With this 
60 



OLIVER TWIST 

thought in mind he had gone to Fagin and had 
made him his offer of money to make the boy a 
thief. 

Fagin, of course, had agreed, and now, to find 
his victim was out of his power made the Jew 
grind his teeth with rage. 

All these things made Fagin determined to gain 
possession of Oliver again, and to do this he got the 
help of two others — a young woman named Nancy 
and her lover, a brutal robber named Bill Sikes. 
These two discovered that Oliver was at Mr. 
Brownlow's house, and lay in wait to kidnap him 
if he ever came out. 

The chance they waited for occurred before 
many days. Mr. Brownlow sent Oliver to take 
some money to the very book-stall in front of which 
the Artful Dodger had stolen the handkerchief, 
and Oliver went without dreaming of any danger. 

Suddenly a young woman in a cap and apron 
screamed out behind him very loudly: "Oh, my 
dear little brother!" and threw her arms tight 
around him. "Oh, my gracious, I've found him!" 
she cried. "Come home directly, you naughty boy! 
For shame, to treat your poor mother so!" 

Oliver struggled, but to no purpose. Nancy (for 
it was she) told the people that crowded about 
them that it was her little brother, who had run 
away from home and nearly broken his mother's 
heart, and that she wanted to take him back. 

Oliver insisted that he didn't know her at all and 
6i 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

hadn't any sister, but just then Bill Sikes appeared 
(as he had planned) and said the young woman 
was telling the truth and that Oliver was a little 
rascal and a liar. The people were all convinced 
at this, and when Sikes struck Oliver and seized 
him by the collar they said, "Serves him right!" 
And so Oliver found himself dragged away from 
Mr. Brownlow to the filthy house where lived 
Fagin. 

The wily old Jew was overjoyed to see them. He 
smiled such a fiendish smile that Oliver screamed 
for help as loud as he could, and at this Fagin 
picked up a great jagged club to beat him with. 

Now, Nancy had been very wicked all her life, 
but in spite of this there was a little good in her. 
She had already begun to repent having helped 
steal the boy, and now his plight touched her heart. 
She seized the club and threw it into the fire, and so 
saved him the beating for that time. 

For many days Oliver was kept a prisoner. He 
was free to wander about the mildewed old house, 
but every outer door was locked and every window 
had closed iron shutters. All the light came in 
through small round holes at the top, which made 
the rooms gloomy and full of shadows. Spider- 
webs were over all the walls, and often the mice 
would go scampering across the floor. There was 
only one window to look out of, and that was in a 
back garret, but it had iron bars and looked out 
only on to the housetops. 
62 



OLIVER TWIST 

He found only one book to read: this was a his- 
tory of the lives of great criminals and was full of 
stories of secret thefts and murders. For the old 
Jew, having tortured his mind by loneliness and 
gloom, had left the volume in his way, hoping it 
would instil into his soul the poison that would 
blacken it for ever. 

But Oliver's blood ran cold as he read, and he 
pushed the book away in horror, and, falling on his 
knees, prayed that he might be spared from such 
deeds and rescued from that terrible place. 

He was still on his knees when Nancy came in 
and told him he must get ready at once to go on a 
journey with Bill Sikes. She had been crying and 
her face was bruised as though she had been beaten. 
Oliver saw she was very sorry for him, and, indeed, 
she told him she would help him if she could, but 
that there was no use trying to escape now, because 
they were watched all the time, and if he got away 
Sikes would certainly kill her. 

Nancy took him to the house where Sikes lived, 
and the next morning the latter started out, making 
Oliver go with him. Sikes had a loaded pistol in 
his overcoat pocket, and he showed this to Oliver 
and told him if he spoke to anybody on the road or 
tried to get away he would shoot him with it. 

They walked a long way out of London, once or 
twice riding in carts which were going in their di- 
rection. Whenever this happened Sikes kept his 
hand in the pocket where the pistol was, so that 
63 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Oliver was afraid to appeal for help. Late at night 
they came to an old deserted mansion in the coun- 
try, and in the basement of this, where a fire had 
been kindled, they joined two other men whom 
Oliver had seen more than once in Fagin's house in 
London. 

The journey had been cold and long and Oliver 
was very hungry, but he could scarcely eat the sup- 
per that was given him for fear of what they in- 
tended to do with him in that lonely spot. He was 
so tired, however, that he finally went fast asleep 
and knew nothing more till two o'clock in the 
morning, when Sikes woke him roughly and bade 
him come with them. 

It was foggy and cold and dark outside. Sikes 
and one of the others each took one of Oliver's 
hands, and so they walked a quarter of a mile to 
where was a fine house with a high wall around it. 
They made him climb over the wall with them, 
and, pulling him along, crept toward the house. 

It was not till now that Oliver knew what they 
intended — that they were going to rob the house 
and make him help them, so that he, too, would be 
a burglar. His limbs began to tremble and he sank 
to his knees, begging them to have mercy and to 
let him run away and die in the fields rather than 
to make him steal. But Sikes drew his pistol with 
a frightful oath and dragged him on. 

In the back of the house was a window, which 
was not fastened, because it was much too small for 
64 




The Artful Dodger ' ' introducing Oliver Twist to Fagin Av page jjf 



OLIVER TWIST 

a man to get through. But Oliver was so little that 
he could do it easily. With the pistol in his hand, 
Sikes put Oliver through the window, gave him a 
lantern and bade him go and unlock the front door 
for them. 

Oliver had made up his mind that as soon as he 
got beyond the range of Sikes's pistol he would 
scream and wake everybody in the house, but just 
then there was a sound from inside, and Sikes 
called to him to come back. 

Suddenly there was a loud shout from the top of 
the stairs — a flash — a report — and Oliver staggered 
back with a terrible pain in his arm and with every- 
thing swimming before his eyes. 

He heard cries and the loud ringing of a bell and 
felt Sikes drag him backward through the window. 
He felt himself being carried along rapidly, and 
then a cold sensation crept over his heart and he 
knew no more. 



Ill 



HOW EVERYTHING TURNED OUT RIGHT FOR OLIVER 
IN THE END 

After a long, long time Oliver came to himself. 
The morning was breaking. He tried to rise and 
found that his arm was wounded and his clothes 
wet with blood. 

He was so dizzy he could hardly stand, but it 
was freezing cold, and he knew if he stayed there 
65 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

he must die. So he staggered on till he came to a 
road where, a little way ofif, he saw a house. There, 
he thought, he might get help. But when he came 
closer he saw that it was the very house the men had 
tried to rob that night. Fear came over him then, 
and he would have run away, but he was too weak. 

He had just strength left to push open the gate, 
totter across the lawn and knock at the door; then 
he sank in a faint on the steps. 

In the house lived a lady named Mrs. Maylie, 
just as kind-hearted as was Mr. Brownlow who 
had rescued Oliver at the police station, and with 
her lived a beautiful girl whom she had adopted, 
named Rose. The servants, when they came to the 
door, made sure Oliver was one of the robbers, and 
sent at once for policemen to take him in charge; 
but Miss Rose, the moment she saw what a good 
face the boy had and how little he looked like a 
thief, made them put him to bed and send at once 
for the doctor. 

When the good doctor arrived and saw Oliver, 
who was still unconscious, he thought Miss Rose 
was right, and when the boy had come to himself 
and told them how he had suffered, he was certain 
of it. They were both sorry the policemen had been 
sent for, because the doctor was sure they would 
not believe Oliver's story, especially as he had been 
arrested once before. He would have taken him 
away, but he was too sick to be moved. 

So when the officers came the doctor told them 

66 



OLIVER TWIST 

that the boy had been accidentally shot and had 
come to the house for assistance, when the servants 
had mistaken him for one of the burglars. This 
was not exactly the truth, but it seemed necessary 
to deceive the policemen if Oliver was to be saved. 
Of course, the servant that had fired the pistol was 
not able to swear that he had hit anybody at all, so 
the officers had to go away without arresting any- 
body. 

After this Oliver was ill for a long time, but he 
was carefully nursed, especially by Miss Rose, who 
grew as fond of him as if she had been his sister. 
As soon as he grew better she wrote a letter for him 
to Mr. Brownlow, the old gentleman who had res- 
cued him from the police station, but to Oliver's 
grief she found that he had gone to the West In- 
dies. 

Thus the time passed till Oliver was quite well, 
and then Miss Rose (first carefully instructing the 
servant who went with them not to lose sight of 
him for a moment for fear of his old enemies) 
took him with her for a visit to London. 

Meantime there had been a dreadful scene in 
Fagin's house when Bill Sikes got back to London 
and told the old Jew that the robbery had failed 
and that Oliver was lost again. They were more 
afraid than ever that they would be caught and sent 
to prison. Fagin swore at Sikes, and Monks cursed 
Fagin, and between them all they determined. that 
Oliver must either be captured or killed. 
^7 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

While they were plotting afresh Nancy, who 
had been feeling sorrier and sorrier for what she 
had done, overheard them, and so found out that 
Monks was Oliver's half-brother and why he so 
hated him; and she made up her mind to save the 
boy from his last and greatest danger. 

So one evening, when she was alone with him, 
she gave Sikes some laudanum in a glass of liquor, 
and when he was asleep she slipped away, found 
Miss Rose and told her all about it. Bad as Nancy 
was, however, she was not willing to betray Fagin 
or Bill Sikes, so she only told her of Monks. 

Miss Rose was greatly astonished, for she had 
never heard of him before, but she pitied Nancy 
because she had tried to help Oliver, and, of 
course, she herself wanted very much to help him 
discover who he was and who his parents had been. 
She thanked Nancy and begged her to come to see 
her again. Nancy was afraid to do this, because 
Bill Sikes watched her so closely, but she prom- 
ised that on the next Sunday at midnight she would 
be on a certain bridge where Miss Rose might see 
her. Then Nancy hurried back before Sikes 
should wake up. 

Miss Rose was in trouble now, for there was no 
one in London with her then who could help her. 
But the same afternoon, whom should Oliver see 
at a distance, walking into his house, but Mr. 
Brownlow. He came back in great joy to tell 
Miss Rose, and she concluded that the old gentle- 



OLIVER TWIST 

man would be the very one to aid her. She took 
Oliver to the house, and, sure enough, there was 
the boy's old benefactor. 

Very glad, indeed, he was to hear what she told 
him. For the old gentleman, when Oliver had dis- 
appeared with the money he had given him to take 
to the bookseller, had been reluctant to think the 
boy he had befriended was, after all, a liar and a 
thief. He had advertised for him, but the only re- 
sult had been a call from Mr. Bumble, who told 
him terrible tales of Oliver's wickedness. To find 
now, after all this time, that Oliver had not run 
away, and that Mr. Bumble's tales were lying ones, 
was a joyful surprise to Mr. Brownlow. 

After he had heard the whole, and when Oliver 
had gone into the garden. Miss Rose told him of 
Nancy's visit and of the man Monks who still pur- 
sued the boy to do him harm. 

It was fortunate that she had come to Mr. 
Brownlow, for, as it happened, he knew a great 
deal about Monks and his evil life. Years before 
the old gentleman himself had been a friend of 
Oliver's father. He knew all about his death in a 
foreign country, and had watched his older son's 
career of shame with sorrow. The very trip 
he had made to the West Indies had acquainted 
him with a crime Monks had committed there, 
from which he had fled to England. But, while 
Mr. Brownlow knew of the curious will Oliver's 
father had made, what had become of the baby to 
69 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

which the latter referred he had never known. 
Now, from the story Miss Rose told him, he was 
assured that Oliver was, indeed, this baby half- 
brother of Monks. 

But it was one thing to know this and quite an- 
other to enable Oliver to prove it. The old gentle- 
man was quick to see that they must get possession 
of Monks and frighten him into confessing the fact 
— whose only proofs had been lost when he threw 
the locket and ring into the river. Mr. Brownlow, 
for this reason, agreed with Miss Rose that they 
should both meet Nancy on the bridge on the com- 
ing Sunday to hear all she had been able to find 
out. 

They said not a word of this to Oliver, and when 
Sunday night came they drove to the spot where 
Nancy had promised to meet them. She had kept 
her word. She was there before them, and Mr. 
Brownlow heard her story over again from her 
own lips. 

But some one else was there, too, hidden behind 
a pillar, where he could hear every word she said, 
and this listener was a spy of Fagin's. 

Nancy had cried so much and acted so strangely 
that the old Jew had grown suspicious and had set 
some one to watch her. And who do you suppose 
this spy was? No other than the cowardly appren- 
tice who had bullied Oliver until he ran away from 
the undertaker's house. The apprentice had finally 
run away, too, had come to London and begun a 
70 



OLIVER TWIST 

wicked life. He was too big a coward to rob any 
one but little children who had been sent to the 
shop to buy something, so Fagin had given him 
spying work to do, and in this, being by nature a 
sneak, he proved very successful. 

The spy lay hid till he had heard all Nancy said ; 
then he slipped out and ran as fast as his legs would 
carry him back to Fagin. The latter sent for Bill 
Sikes, knowing him to be the most brutal and 
bloodthirsty ruffian of all, and told him what 
Nancy had done. 

The knowledge, as the Jew expected, turned 
Sikes into a demon. He rushed to where Nancy 
lived. She had returned and was asleep on her 
couch, but she woke as he entered, and saw by his 
face that he meant to murder her. Through all 
her evil career Nancy had been true to Sikes and 
would not have betrayed him. But he would not 
listen now, though she pleaded with him pitifully 
to come with her to some foreign country (as Miss 
Rose had begged her to do), where they might 
both lead better lives. Fury had made him mad. 
As she clung to his knees, he seized a heavy club 
and struck her down. 

So poor Nancy died, with only time for a feeble 
prayer to God for mercy. 

Of all bad deeds that Sikes had ever done, that 
was the worst. The sun shone through the window 
and lit the room where Nancy lay. He tried to 
shut it out, but he could not. He grew suddenly 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

afraid. Horror came upon him. Fie crept out of 
the room, locked the door behind him, and 
plunged into the crowded street. 

He walked for miles and miles, here and there, 
without purpose. Whichever way he went he could 
not rid himself of that horror. When night came 
he crawled into a disused shed, but he could not 
sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes he seemed to 
see Nancy's eyes looking at him. He got up and 
wandered on again, desperately lonely for some one 
to talk to. 

He heard a man telling another about the mur- 
der as he read the account in a newspaper, and 
knew that he must hide. He hastened then to a den 
he knew in a house beside the river, dirty and dis- 
mal and the haunt of thieves. Some of his old com- 
panions were there, but even they shrank from him. 

He had been seen to enter the place, however, 
and in a few minutes the street was full of people, 
all yelling for his capture. He barred the doors 
and windows, but they began to break down the 
shutters with sledge-hammers. 

He ran to the roof with a rope, thinking to let 
himself down on the side next the river and so es- 
cape. Here he fastened one end of the rope to the 
chimney, and, making a loop in the other end, put 
it over his head. 

Just at that instant he Imagined he saw Nancy's 
eyes again looking at him. He staggered back in 
terror, missed his footing, and fell over the edge of 



OLIVER TWIST 

the roof. He had not had time to draw the noose 
down under his arms, so that it slipped up around 
his neck, and there he hung, dead, with a broken 
neck. 

Meanwhile Mr. Brownlow had acted very 
quickly, so that Monks had got no warning. He 
had had men watching for the latter and now, hav- 
ing found out all he wanted to know, he had him 
seized in the street, put into a coach and driven to 
his office, where he brought him face to face with 
Oliver. 

The old gentleman told Monks he could do one 
of two things: either he could confess before wit- 
nesses the whole infamous plot he had framed 
against Oliver, and so restore to him his rights and 
name, or else he could refuse, in which case he 
would at once be arrested and sent to prison. See- 
ing that Mr. Brownlow knew all about the part he 
had played. Monks, to save himself, made a full 
confession — how he had planned to keep his half- 
brother from his inheritance. And he also con- 
fessed what no one there had guessed: that Miss 
Rose, who had been adopted in her infancy, was 
really the sister of Oliver's dead mother — his aunt, 
indeed. This was the happiest of all Oliver's sur- 
prises that day, for he had learned to love Miss 
Rose very dearly. 

Monks thus bought his own freedom, and cheap 
enough he probably thought it, for before he had 
finished his story, word came that Fagin the Jew 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

had been captured by the police and was to be tried 
without delay for his life. 

Oliver no longer had anything to fear, and came 
into possession of his true name and his fortune. 
Mr. Brownlow adopted him as his own son, and 
moved to the village where Oliver had been cared 
for in the family of Miss Rose, and where they all 
lived happily ever afterward. 

The company of thieves was broken up with Fa- 
gin's arrest. Fagin himself was found guilty, and 
died on the gallows shrieking with fear. Monks 
sailed for America, where he was soon detected in 
crime and died in prison. 

The wicked apprentice, who had been the real 
cause of poor Nancy's murder, was so frightened at 
the fate of Fagin that he reformed and became a 
spy for the police, and by his aid the Artful 
Dodger, who continued to pick pockets, soon found 
himself in jail. 

As for Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, they, of course, 
lost their positions, and sank from bad to worse till 
they finally became paupers and were sent to the 
very same poorhouse where they had tortured little 
Oliver Twist. 



74 



BARNABY RUDGE 

Published 1841 

Scene: London and the Country 
Time: lyys to 1780 

CHARACTERS 

Barnaby Rudge A half-witted boy 

Rudge : His father 

A murderer 

Mrs. Rudge His mother 

Geoffrey Haredale A country gentleman 

Emma Haredale His niece 

Sir John Chester An enemy of Haredale's 

Edward Chester His son 

in love with Emma Haredale 

Varde'n A locksmith 

Dolly Varden His daughter 

A friend of Emma Haredale's 

Simon Tappertit Varden's apprentice 

Joe Willet The son of an innkeeper 

In love with Dolly Varden 

"Maypole Hugh" A giant hostler 

In reality, the son of Sir John Chester 

Lord George Gordon A deluded nobleman 

Gashford His secretary 

Dennis A hangman 

"Grip" Barnaby 's tame raven 



BARNABY RUDGE 



barnaby's boyhood 



Many years ago a gentleman named Haredale 
lived at a house called The Warren, near Lon- 
don. His wife was dead and he had one baby 
daughter, Emma. 

One morning he was found murdered in his 
house, which had been robbed. Both the gardener 
and the steward, Rudge, were missing, and 
some people thought one had done it and some 
thought the other. But some days later a disfigured 
body was found in a pond on the grounds which, 
by its clothes and a watch and ring, was recognized 
as that of Rudge, the missing steward. Then, of 
course, every one belived the gardener had mur- 
dered both, and the police searched for him a long 
time, but he was never found. 

On the same day this cruel murder was discov- 
ered, a baby was born to Mrs. Rudge, the wife of 
the steward — a pretty boy, though with a birth- 
mark on the wrist as red as blood, and a strange 
look of terror on the baby face. He was named 
Barnaby, and his mother loved him all the more 
because it was soon seen he was weak-minded, and 
n 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

could never be in his right senses. She herself, 
poor woman! seemed never able to forget the hor- 
ror of that day. 

Geoffrey Haredale, the brother and heir of the 
murdered man, took up his abode at The Warren 
and adopted the little Emma, his niece, as his own 
daughter. He was kind to Mrs. Rudge also. Not 
only did he let her live rent-free in a house he 
owned, but he did many a kind deed secretly for 
her half-witted son as he grew older. 

Barnaby Rudge grew up a strange, weird crea- 
ture. His hair was long and red and hung in dis- 
order about his shoulders. His skin was pale, his 
eyes bright and his clothes he trimmed most curi- 
ously with bits of gaudy lace and bright ribbons 
and glass toys. He wore a cluster of broken pea- 
cock feathers in his hat and girded at his side was 
the broken hilt of an old sword without a blade. 
But strangest of all was a little wicker basket he 
always carried on his back. When he set this down 
and opened it, there hopped out a tame raven who 
would cock its head on one side and say hoarsely 
and very knowingly: 

"Hello! Hello! Hello! What's the matter here? 
Keep up your spirits. Never say die. I'm a devil, 
I'm a devil, I'm a devil! Hurrah!" 

Then it would whistle or make a noise like the 
drawing of a cork out of a bottle, repeated a great 
many times, and flap its wings against its sides as 
if it were bursting with laughter. 
78 



BARNABY RUDGE 

This raven was named Grip and was Barnaby's 
constant companion. The neighbors used to say 
it was one hundred and twenty years old (for ra- 
vens live a very long time), and some said it knew 
altogether too much to be only a bird. But Bar- 
naby would hear nothing said against it, and, next 
to his mother, loved it better than anything in the 
world. 

Barnaby knew that folks called him half-witted, 
but he cared little for that. Sometimes he would 
laugh at what they said. 

"Why," he would say, "how much better to be 
silly than as wise as you ! You don't see shadowy 
people like those that live in sleep — not you. Nor 
eyes in the knotted panes of glass, nor swift ghosts 
when it blows hard, nor do you hear voices in the 
air, nor see men stalking in the sky — not you. I lead 
a merrier life than you with all your cleverness. 
You re the dull men. We're the bright ones. Ha, 
ha! I'll not change with you, not I!" 

Haredale, who had been so kind to Barnaby's 
mother, was a burly, stern man who had few ac- 
quaintances and lived much alone. When first he 
came to live at The Warren an enemy of his. Sir 
John Chester, had circulated suspicious rumors 
about him, so that some came half to believe he 
himself had had something to do with his brother's 
murder. 

These whispers so afifected Haredale that as time 
passed he grew gloomy and morose and lived in 

79 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

seclusion, thinking only how he could solve the 
mystery of the murder, and loving more and more 
the little Emma as she grew into a beautiful girl. 
He neglected The Warren so that the property 
looked quite desolate and ruined, and at length 
superstitious people in the neighborhood came to 
mutter that it was haunted by the ghost of Rudge, 
the steward, whose body had been found in the 
pond. 

The old bell-ringer of the near-by church even 
said he had seen this ghost once, when he went, 
late one night, to wind the church clock. But of 
course others, who knew there were no such things 
as ghosts, only smiled at these stories. 

Sir John Chester, who so hated Haredale, was 
just as smooth and smiling and elegant as the other 
was rough. Haredale had been Sir John's drudge 
and scapegoat at school and the latter had always 
despised him. And as the years went by Sir John 
came to hate him. 

His own son Edward had fallen in love with 
Emma, Haredale's niece, and she loved him in 
return. Sir John had been all his life utterly sel- 
fish and without conscience. He had little money 
and was much in debt and wanted his son to marry 
an heiress, so that he himself could continue his 
life of pleasure. Edward, however, gave his father 
to understand that he would never give up his love 
for Emma. Sir John believed that if Haredale 
chose, he could make his niece dislike Edward, 
80 



BARNABY RUDGE 

and because he did not, Sir John hated Haredale 
the more bitterly. 

Emma had a close friend named Dolly Varden, 
the daughter of a locksmith. Dolly was a pretty, 
dimpled, roguish little flirt, as rosy and sparkling 
and fresh as an apple, and she had a great many 
lovers. 

One of these was her father's apprentice, who 
lived in the same house. His name was Simon Tap- 
pertit — a conceited, bragging, empty-headed young 
man with a great opinion of his own good looks. 
When he looked at his thin legs, which he ad- 
mired exceedingly, he could not see how it was 
that Dolly could help worshiping him. 

Tappertit had ambitions of his own and thought 
himself a great man who was kept down by a 
tyrannical master, though the good-natured lock- 
smith was the kindest man in London. He had 
formed a society of apprentices whose toast was, 
"Death to all masters, life to all apprentices, and 
love to all fair damsels!" He was their leader. 
He had made them all keys to fit their masters' 
doors, arid at night, when they were supposed to 
be asleep in bed, they would steal out to meet in 
a dirty cellar owned by an old blind man, where 
they kept a skull and cross-bones and signed high- 
sounding oaths with a pen dipped in blood, and did 
other silly things. The object of the society was to 
hurt, annoy, wrong and pick quarrels with such of 
their masters as happened not to please them. With 

Si 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

such cheap fooleries Tappertit had convinced him- 
self that he was fit to be a great general. 

But with all his smirking, Dolly Varden only 
laughed at him. To tell the truth, she was very 
fond of young Joe Willet, whose father kept the 
Maypole Inn, very near The Warren where her 
friend Emma Haredale lived. Joe was a good, 
brave fellow, and was head over ears in love with 
Dolly, but Dolly was a coquette, and never let him 
know how much she cared for him. Joe was not 
contented at home, for his father seemed to think 
him a child and did not treat him according to his 
years, so that but for leaving Dolly Varden he 
would long ago have run away to seek his fortune. 

Both Joe and Dolly knew how Edward Chester 
loved Emma Haredale, and they used sometimes to 
carry notes from one to the other, since the hatred 
of Sir John for Emma's uncle often prevented the 
lovers from meeting. 

Sir John found this out, and bribed a hostler at 
the Maypole Inn to spy for him and prevent, if he 
could, these letters passing. The hostler was an un- 
couth, drunken giant that people called Maypole 
Hugh, as strong as an ox, and cruel and cunning. 
Hugh watched carefully, and from time to time 
would go to Sir John's house in London and re- 
port what he had seen. 



82 



BARNABY RUDGE 
II 

THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER AND WHO HE WAS 

About this time residents in the neighborhood 
of The Warren and the Maypole Inn began to tell 
tales of a mysterious man who roamed about the 
country-side. 

He was seen often and by many persons, always 
at night, skulking in the shadow or riding furiously 
on a horse. He was fierce and haggard and dis- 
courteous to travelers, wore a slouch hat which 
he never took off, and generally kept the lower 
part of his face muffled in a handkerchief. He al- 
ways went alone. Some said he slept in church- 
yards, others that he never slept at all, and still 
others that he was a wicked man who had sold 
his soul to the Evil One. 

One night he rested at the Maypole Inn, and 
a little while after he had gone, Varden the lock- 
smith, Dolly's father, as he drove home, found Ed- 
ward Chester lying in the road, having been 
wounded and robbed of his money. Barnaby 
Rudge had seen the attack and was bending over 
him. He had been too frightened to give aid, but 
from his description Varden knew the robber was 
the stranger who had stopped at the inn. 

The honest locksmith took Edward into - his 
chaise, drove him to Barnaby's house, which was 
83 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

near by, and left him in care of Mrs. Rudge, where 
a doctor soon dressed the wound, which was not 
serious. 

Next day Mr. Varden came to see how the 
wounded man was. As he sat talking with Mrs. 
Rudge a tapping came at the window. She went 
to the door. The locksmith heard her cry out, and 
sprang forward to find standing there, to his aston- 
ishment, the robber of the night before. He 
grasped at him, but the woman threw herself be- 
fore him, clasped his arm and besought him, for 
her life's sake, not to pursue the man. 

The locksmith had known Barnaby's mother all 
his life, but so strange was her action now (espe- 
cially since she refused to answer any question, 
begging him to ask her nothing) that he almost 
wondered if she herself could be in league with a 
crime-doer. Her apparent agony touched him, 
however, and, raising no alarm, he went home in 
great puzzle of mind. 

He would have been far more disturbed if he 
had known the whole truth. For the mysterious 
stranger he had seen, who by night had haunted 
the neighborhood, was none other than Mrs. 
Rudge's husband, Barnaby's father, the steward 
who everybody believed had been murdered with 
his master, and whose body had been found in the 
pond. 

Rudge himself had committed that wicked deed. 
He had killed both master and gardener, and to 
84 



BARNABY RUDGE 

cover the crime had put his own clothes, his watch 
and ring on the latter's body and sunk it in the 
pond. When, on the night of the murder, he told 
his wife what he had done, she had shrunk fearfully 
from him, declaring that, although being his 
wife she would not give him up to justice, yet she 
would never own him or shelter him. He had fled 
then with the money he had stolen, and that night, 
while she lay sick with horror, Barnaby had been 
born with his poor crazed brain, the look of terror 
in his baby face and the birth-mark of blood on his 
wrist. 

For many years the guilty wretch had wandered 
the earth, but he could not escape the knowledge 
of his deed. And at last his conscience had driven 
him back to the scene of his crime, friendless, pen- 
niless, fearful of the sunlight, slinking by night 
like a ghost about the house in which he had 
murdered his master, and hounding his miserable 
wife for money with which to buy food and drink. 
The poor woman had kept her terrible secret, giv- 
ing him every coin she could save, striving so that 
Barnaby, unhappily born as he was, should never 
know the shame of having his father suffer death 
on the gallows. When Rudge had come to her 
house that day he had thought her alone, and she 
had saved him from capture only by begging the 
locksmith to stay his hand. 

After his hairbreadth escape from Va-rden, 
Rudge hid himself in a narrow street. When the 
8s 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

next dawn came, as he searched for some dark den 
in which he might lie sheltered till another night, 
he saw Simon Tappertit issuing with his noisy ap- 
prentice crew from the cellar in which they held 
their meetings. He entered its door, made friends 
with the villainous blind man who kept it and there 
established his headquarters. 

Once more, one night after the wounded Edward 
had been taken to his own home, Rudge hunted 
out his trembling wife and demanded money, 
threatening to bring harm to Barnaby if she re- 
fused him, and she gave him all she had. 

But this time dread of him made her desperate. 
When morning came she went to Haredale and 
told him that she and her son could no longer live 
on his bounty. The next day, with Barnaby, who 
carried on his back his beloved raven. Grip, she 
left the house afoot, telling no one where they were 
going lest her husband find her out, and pushed 
far into the country to find a home in some obscure 
village. And though Rudge, the murderer, and the 
blind man (who was much more crafty and cun- 
ning than many men with eyesight) searched for 
them everywhere, it was a long time before they 
found any trace. 

Perhaps Joe and Dolly Varden missed poor 
cheery Barnaby more than did any one else. But 
several events occurred soon after this that gave 
them other things to think of. 

Maypole Hugh, the savage hostler, had con- 



BARNABY RUDGE 

tinued his spying work for Edward's father, and 
Sir John determined it was high time to break off 
his son's attachment for Emma Haredale. 

One day Dolly was carrying a letter from Emma 
at The Warren to Edward, and as she passed 
through the fields, Hugh attacked her, throwing 
his arms around her and pretending to make coarse 
love to her. She was dreadfully frightened and 
screamed as loud as she could. Joe, as it happened, 
was walking within sound of her voice, and ran 
like the wind to her aid. 

In another moment Hugh had leaped the hedge 
and disappeared and Dolly was sobbing in her 
rescuer's arms. She was afraid to tell Joe who had 
frightened her, for fear the hostler would take his 
revenge by harming him, so she only said she had 
been attacked by a man whom she had never seen. 

In her scare she had forgotten all about the letter 
she had carried, and now she discovered it was 
gone. It was nowhere to be found. 

This, of course, was because Hugh had stolen it. 
It was to get the letter that he had frightened her, 
and he was soon on his way to carry it to Sir John. 
Dolly did not guess this. She wrote to Emma tell- 
ing her of the mishap, and this note Joe, to whom 
she intrusted it, knowing no reason to distrust the 
hostler, gave to Hugh to deliver. So Sir John 
got both missives In the end. 

Emma Haredale, not understanding why Ed- 
ward returned no answer to her letter, was hurt, 
87 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

and thought him cold. Sir John, seizing his op- 
portunity, told her one day (pretending sorrow 
while he did so) that his son, naturally fickle, had 
fallen in love with some one else, to whom he was 
soon to be married. 

Emma, not dreaming the father of the man she 
loved could be such a false liar, believed him, and 
when Edward wrote her, speaking of his poverty 
and telling her he was going to leave England to 
try to better his prospects, she thought his manly 
letter only an excuse to part from her. 

Proud, though heart-broken, she did not answer 
it, and so, thanks to his father's selfish scheming, 
Edward sailed away to the West Indies, hopeless 
and despairing. 

Another left England at the same time whose 
going meant far more to Dolly Varden. This was 
Joe. His father, the innkeeper, had been restrain- 
ing him more and more, until his treatment had 
become the jest of the country-side, and Joe had 
chafed to the point of rebellion at the gibes that 
continually met him. One day, at the jeer of an old 
enemy of his, his wrath boiled over. He sprang 
upon him and thrashed him soundly in the inn be- 
fore the assembled guests. Then, knowing his fa- 
ther would never forgive him, he went to his own 
room and barricaded the door. That night Joe let 
himself down from his window and before day- 
light was in London. 

He went first to the locksmith's house to tell 



BARNABY RUDGE 

Dolly he had run away and that he loved her, but 
Dolly being a flirt, only laughed. To tell the truth, 
she was so very fond of Joe that she didn't like to 
show him how sorry she was. So the poor fellow 
went away thinking she cared very little (though 
as soon as he was out of sight she nearly cried her 
eyes out), and enlisted as a soldier. That same 
night Joe started from London to fight in the war 
in America. And it was a long time before either 
he or Edward Chester was heard of again. 

Ill 

BARNABY GETS INTO TROUBLE 

Five years went by, and Edward Chester re- 
mained in the West Indies and prospered. For five 
years Joe Willet fought in the war in America. 
And for five years Barnaby Rudge with his mother 
and Grip, the raven, lived unmolested in their little 
village and were happy. 

At the end of the five years three things hap- 
pened at about the same time: Edward started 
back to England from the West Indies with a fair 
fortune in his pocket; Joe was sent back from 
America with one arm gone, and Barnaby and his 
mother left their village home again, secretly, and 
set out for London, hoping to lose themselves in its 
hugeness. The wily blind man, the companion now 
of Rudge, the murderer, had found them out! 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

He came one day and made Mrs. Rudge give 
him all the money she had been able to lay by in 
these five years except a single gold piece. He told 
her he would return in a week for more and that 
if she had not got it then, he would entice Barnaby 
away to join in the evil life of his father. So she 
left the village the very next morning, and she and 
Barnaby trudged afoot all the weary way to the 
great city. 

Though they knew nothing of it, there was great 
excitement in London. Lord George Gordon, a 
well-meaning but crack-brained nobleman, led 
astray by flatterers till he believed he had a God- 
given mission to drive all Catholics out of Eng- 
land, had, sometime before this, begun to hold 
meetings and to stir up the people with the cry of 
''No Popery!" 

He declared that the religion of the country was 
in danger of being overthrown and that the Pope 
of Rome was plotting to make his religion su- 
preme. And this idea he talked wherever he went. 
He was a slender, sallow man who dressed in 
severe black and wore his hair smoothly combed, 
and his bright, restless eyes and his look of un- 
certainty made it clear that he was no man to 
lead, but was rather himself the misled dupe of 
others. 

One of these schemers who ruled him was his 
secretary, Gashford, a man of ugly face, with 
beetling brows and great flapped ears. He had 
90 



BARNABY RUDGE 

been a thief and a scoundrel all his life, and had 
wormed himself into Lord George's confidence by 
flattery. He easily fooled his master into believing 
that the rabble who flocked to hear him, and the 
idle loungers who yelled themselves hoarse at what 
he said, were crowds of honest citizens who be- 
lieved as he did, and were ready to follow his 
leadership. Gashford had added to his followers 
even Dennis, the hangman of London, and the 
foolish nobleman not knowing the ruffian's true 
calling, thought him a man to trust. 

For many weeks this banding together of all the 
lawless ragamuffins of London had gone on, till 
one had only to shout ''No Popery!" on any street 
corner to draw together a crowd bent on mischief. 
Respectable people grew afraid and kept to their 
houses, and criminals and street vagabonds grew 
bolder and bolder. 

As may be guessed, Simon Tappertit, the one- 
time apprentice of Varden the locksmith, rejoiced 
at this excitement as at a chance to show his talent 
for leadership. His apprentice society had now be- 
come the "United Bulldogs," and he himself, help- 
ing the schemes of Gashford, strutted about among 
the crowds with an air of vast importance. 

Sir John Chester watched the trouble gathering 
with glee. His old enemy Haredale, he knew, was 
a Catholic, and as this movement, if it grew bold 
enough, meant harm to all of that religion, he 
hoped for its success. He was too cunning to aid 
91 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

it publicly, but he sent Maypole Hugh, who was 
still his spy, to Gashford; and the brawny hostler, 
who savagely longed for fighting and plunder, 
joined with the secretary and with Dennis the 
hangman to help increase the tumult. 

A day had been set on which Lord George Gor- 
don had vowed he would march to Parliament at 
the head of forty thousand men to demand the pass- 
ing of a law to forbid all Catholics to enter the 
country. This vast rabble-army gathered in a great 
field, under the command of these sorry leaders — 
the misguided lord, Dennis the hangman, Tapper- 
tit, Hugh the hostler, Gashford the secretary, and 
other rowdies picked for their boldness and dar- 
ing. The mob thus formed covered an immense 
space. All wore blue cockades in their hats or car- 
ried blue flags, and from them went up a hoarse 
roar of oaths, shouts and ribald songs. 

Such was the scene on which Barnaby and his 
mother came as they walked into London. They 
knew nothing of its cause or its meaning. Mrs. 
Rudge saw its rough disorder with terror, but the 
confusion, the waving flags and the shouts had got 
into Barnaby's brain. To him this seemed a splen- 
did host marching to some noble cause. He 
watched with sparkling eyes, longing to join it. 

Suddenly Maypole Hugh rushed from the 
crowd with a shout of recognition, and, thrusting 
a flagstaff into Barnaby's hands, drew him into the 

ranks. 

92 



BARNABY RUDGE 

His mother shrieked and ran forward, but she 
was thrown to the ground; Barnaby was whirled 
away into the moving mass and she saw him no 
more. 

Barnaby enjoyed that hour of march with all his 
soul, and the louder the howling the more he was 
thrilled. The crowd surrounded the houses of 
Parliament and fought the police. At length a 
regiment of mounted soldiers charged them. Bar- 
naby thought this brave work and held his ground 
valiantly, even knocking one soldier off his horse 
with the flagstaff, until others dragged him to a 
place of safety. 

That night the drunken mob, grown bolder, tore 
down, pillaged and burned all the Catholic chapels 
within their reach, and, with Hugh and Dennis the 
hangman, poor crazed Barnaby ran at its head, 
covered with dirt, his garments torn to rags, sing- 
ing and leaping with delight. He thought he was 
the most courageous of all, that he was helping to 
destroy the country's enemies, and that when the 
fighting was over he and his mother would be rich 
and she would always be proud that he was so 
noble and so brave. 

The golden cups, the candlesticks and the money 
they stole from the burned chapels Hugh and the 
hangman buried under a heap of straw in the tav- 
ern which they had made their headquarters, and 
left Barnaby to guard the place. He counted this 
a sacred trust, and when soldiers came to arrest all 

93 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

in the building he refused to fly in time. He even 
fought them single-handed and felled two before 
he was knocked down with the butt of a musket 
and handcuffed. 

While he had been resisting, Grip had been 
busily plucking away the straw from the hidden 
plunder; now his hoarse croak showed them the 
hoard and they unearthed it all. At length, closing 
ranks around Barnaby, they marched him off to a 
barracks, from which he was taken to Newgate 
Prison, where a blacksmith put irons on his arms 
and legs, and he and the raven were locked in a 
cell. 

While Barnaby was guarding the tavern room, 
Hugh, egged on by his master, Sir John Chester, 
had proposed the burning of The Warren, where 
Haredale still lived with Emma, his niece, and 
Dolly Varden, now her companion. 

The crowd agreed gladly, since Haredale was 
a Catholic and that same day in London had given 
evidence to the police against the rioters who had 
burned the chapels. They rushed away, marched 
hastily across the fields, tied the old host of the May- 
pole Inn to his chair, drank all the liquor they 
could find and then rushed to The Warren. There 
they put the servants to flight, burst in the doors, 
staved the wine-casks in the cellar, split up the 
costly furniture with hammers and axes and set 
fire to the building, so that it soon burned to the 
ground. 

94 



BARNABY RUDGE 

Haredale, in London, saw the red glare in the 
sky and rode post-haste to the place, but found on 
his arrival only ruins and ashes. He believed that 
Emma and Dolly had had time to escape to safety; 
but while he was searching the grounds for some 
sign of them he saw in the starlight a man hiding 
in a broken turret. 

He drew his sword and advanced. As the figure 
moved into the light he rushed forward, flung him- 
self upon him and clutched his throat. 

"Villain!" he cried in a terrible voice, "dead 
and buried as all men supposed, at last, at last I 
have you! You, Rudge, slayer of my brother and 
of his faithful servant! Double murderer and 
monster, I arrest you in the name of God!" 

Bound and fettered in his carriage, Haredale 
took Rudge back to London and had him locked in 
Newgate Prison. 

IV 

BARNABY PROSPERS AT LAST 

Haredale searched vainly next day for Emma 
and Dolly Varden. He could not believe they had 
lost their lives in the burning building, yet he was 
filled with anxiety because of their disappearance. 
Could he have known what had happened he 
would have been even more fearful. 

Simon Tappertit had seen his chance at last to 
win for himself the lovely Dolly, who had scorned 

95 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

him when he was an apprentice of the locksmith. 
He had bribed Hugh and the hangman to aid him. 
While the mob was occupied at the front of the 
house this precious pair had entered from the back, 
seized the two girls and put them into a coach. 

This they guarded at a distance till the burning 
was done; then, with Tappertit on the box and 
surrounded by his ruffians, the coach was driven 
into the city. 

Emma had spent the day in the fear that her 
uncle had been killed with other Catholics in 
London, and at this new and surpassing fright she 
had fainted. Dolly, though no less concerned, had 
fought her captors bravely, though vainly. Often 
in that long ride she wished that Joe, her vanished 
lover, were there to rescue her as he had rescued 
her once from Maypole Hugh. 

She had determined when she reached the Lon- 
don streets to scream as loudlyas she could for help ; 
but before they came to the city Hugh climbed into 
the carriage and sat between them, threatening to 
choke either if she made a noise. 

In this wise they were driven to a miserable cot- 
tage, and in the dirty apartment to which they were 
taken Dolly threw herself upon the unconscious 
Emma and wept pitifully, unmindful of the jeers 
of Hugh and of the hangman. 

When Tappertit entered the room suddenly, 
Dolly, not knowing his part in the plot, screamed 
with joy and threw herself into his arms crying: 
96 



BARNABY RUDGE 

"I knew it! My dear father's at the door I 
Heaven bless you for rescuing us!" 

But she saw in an instant her mistake, when the 
ridiculous braggart laid his hand on his breast and 
told her, now that he no longer was an apprentice 
but a famous leader of the people, he had chosen 
to be her husband. With this announcement he 
left them. 

Meanwhile Mrs. Rudge, day and night, had 
searched everywhere for Barnaby. In one of the 
riots she was injured, and was taken to a hospital, 
and while she lay there she heard with agony that 
her son had been so active in the disturbances that 
a price had been put by the Government on his 
head. 

But in his present trouble Barnaby had unex- 
pectedly found an old friend. Joe Willet, just re- 
turned with one empty sleeve from his five years of 
soldiering in America, had been with the soldiers 
in the barracks when Barnaby had been brought 
there on his way to prison. He soon discovered 
who the boy's rioting companions had been and 
took them word of his plight, for he knew it meant 
death to Barnaby unless he escaped. 

Maypole Hugh, Tappertit and the hangman 
were all itching for more disorder, and this news 
gave them an excuse. They went out at once and 
gathered the mob together to attack Newgate 
Prison and to release all the prisoners. They them- 
selves led the procession. The house of Varden, 

97 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Dolly's father, was on their way; they stopped 
there, and, in spite of the lusty fight he made, car- 
ried the locksmith with them to compel him to 
open the prison gates with his tools. 

This he refused to do, and they would doubtless 
have killed him, but for two men who dragged 
him from their clutches in the nick of time. These 
two men were the one-armed Joe and Edward 
Chester, just returned from the West Indies, whom 
the former had met by accident that day. They 
took the locksmith to his home, while the raging 
crowd brought furniture from neighboring houses 
and built a bonfire of it to burn down the great 
prison gate. 

From this same mob Haredale himself had a 
narrow escape. He was staying at a house near by, 
which, belonging to a Catholic, was attacked. He 
tried to escape across the roof, but was recognized 
from the street by the giant Hugh. The cellar 
luckily had a back door opening into a lane, and 
with the assistance of Joe and Edward, who had 
hastened to the rear to aid him, he escaped that 
way. 

Maypole Hugh, during this terrible time while 
the mob was burning houses everywhere and the 
soldiers firing on the rioters in every quarter of 
London, seemed to bear a charmed life. He rode a 
great brewer's horse and carried an ax, and wher- 
ever the fight was thickest there he was to be 
found. 

98 



BARNABY RUDGE 

Never had such a sight been seen in London 
as when the prison gate fell and the crowd rushed 
from cell to cell, smashing the Iron doors to release 
the prisoners, some of whom, being under sentence 
of death, had never expected to be free again. 
Rudge, the murderer, knowing nothing of what the 
uproar meant, suffered tortures, thinking in his 
guilty fear that the hordes were howling for his 
life. When he was finally released and in the open 
street he found Barnaby beside him. 

They broke off their fetters, and that night took 
refuge in a shed in a field. Next day Rudge sent 
Barnaby to try to find the blind man, his cunning 
partner, in whose wits he trusted to help them get 
away. Barnaby brought the blind man, and 
brought also Hugh, whom he found wounded in 
the street, but in so doing he was seen by Dennis, 
the hangman. 

This villainous sneak, knowing that the daring 
of the rioters had reached its limit, and that they 
must soon be scattered and captured, and thinking 
to buy pardon for himself by a piece of treachery, 
without delay brought soldiers, who surrounded 
the shed. The blind man, attempting to run away, 
was shot dead, and the others, Rudge, Hugh and 
poor, innocent Barnaby, were captured. 

Then, well satisfied with his work, Dennis set 
out for the house where Simon Tappertit had con- 
fined Emma Haredale and Dolly Varden. The 
hangman wanted them well out of the way, so they 

tUFC ^ 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

could not testify that he had helped to burn The 
Warren and to kidnap them. He had thought of a 
plan to have them taken to a boat in the river and 
conveyed where their friends would never find 
them, and to carry them off he chose Gashford, 
Lord George Gordon's secretary, who was the 
more willing as he had fallen in love with Emma's 
beauty. 

But this wicked plan was never to be carried out. 
The very hour that Gashford came on this pitiless 
errand, while he roughly bade Emma prepare to 
depart, the doors flew open. Men poured in, led 
by Edward Chester, who knocked Gashford 
down; and in another moment Emma was clasped 
in her uncle's embrace, and Dolly, laughing and 
crying at the same time, fell into the arms of her 
father. Their place of concealment had been dis- 
covered a few hours before, and the three men had 
lost no time in planning their capture. 

Dennis the hangman, in spite of his previous 
treachery, caught in the trap, was taken straight- 
way to jail, and Simon Tappertit, wounded and 
raging, watched Dolly's departure from the floor, 
where he lay with his wonderful legs, the pride 
and glory of his life, broken and crushed into 
shapeless ugliness. The famous riots were over. 
Lord George Gordon was a prisoner, hundreds 
were being arrested, and London was again grow- 
ing quiet. 

Mrs, Rudge, poor mother! at last found Bar- 



BARNABY RUDGE 

naby where he lay chained in his cell and con- 
demned to death. Day after day she never left 
him, while Varden, the locksmith, and Haredale 
worked hard for his release. They carried his 
case even to the King, and at the last moment, 
while he rode on his way to execution, his pardon 
was granted. 

Of the rest who died on the scaffold, Rudge, the 
murderer, was hanged, cursing all men to the last; 
Maypole Hugh died glorying in his evil life and 
with a jest on his lips, and Dennis, the hangman, 
was dragged to the gallows cringing and shrieking 
for mercy. 

A few weeks later Emma Haredale was mar- 
ried to Edward Chester and sailed with him back 
to the West Indies, where he had established a 
flourishing business. 

Before this, however, his father. Sir John Ches- 
ter, was well punished for his hard heart and bad 
deeds by the discovery that Maypole Hugh, the 
hostler, was really his own unacknowledged son, 
whose mother he had deserted many years before. 
But even this blow, and the marriage of his son Ed- 
ward to the niece of his lifelong enemy, did not 
soften him. He still hated Haredale with his old 
venom and loved to go to the ruins of The Warren 
and gloat over its destruction. 

On one of these visits he met and taunted Hare- 
dale beyond all endurance. The two men drew 
their swords and fought a duel, which ended by 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Haredale's running Sir John through the heart. 
Haredale left England at once, entered a convent 
in a foreign country and spent his few remaining 
years in penance and remorse. 

Lord George Gordon, the poor deluded noble 
who had been the cause of all this disorder, finally 
died, harmless and quite crazy, in Newgate Prison. 
Simon Tappertit, in spite of his active part in the 
riots, was luckier, for he got off with two wooden 
legs and lived for many years, a corner boot-black. 

Joe, of course, married Dolly Varden, and the 
locksmith gave her such a generous marriage por- 
tion that he was able to set up in business, succeed- 
ing his father as landlord of the old Maypole Inn, 
and there they lived long and happily. 

Barnaby Rudge, after the death of his father, 
gradually became more rational and was every- 
where a great favorite with old and young. He 
and his mother lived always on the Maypole farm, 
and there were never two more contented souls than 
they. 

As for Grip, the raven, he soon forgot his jail ex- 
perience and grew sleek and glossy again. For a 
whole year he never uttered a word till one sunny 
morning he suddenly broke out with, "I'm a devil, 
I'm a devil, I'm a devil!" in extraordinary rapture. 
From that time on he talked more and more, and as 
he was only one hundred and fifty years old when 
Barnaby was gray headed (a mere infant for a 
raven) he is very probably talking yet. 



THE PERSONAL HISTORY OF DAVID 
COPPERFIELD 

Published 1849-1850 

Scene: London, Yarmouth, Dover and the Country 
Time: 18 12 to 1842 

CHARACTERS 

David Copperfield A fatherless boy 

Miss Betsy Trotwood His aunt 

Peggotty His nurse 

Mr. Murdstone His stepfather 

Miss Murdstone Mr. Murdstone's sister 

Mr. Peggotty A fisherman 

Peggotty's brother 
Ham Their nephew- 
Mrs. Gummidge The widow of Mr. Peggotty's 

dead partner 

'Little Em'ly" Peggotty's orphan niece 

Barkis A cart driver 

Later, Peggotty's husband 

Mr. Creakle Proprietor of a boys' school 

Tommy Traddles ] 

James Steerforth ] ' ' •• Schoolmates and friends of David's 

Mr. Micawber A London friend of David's 

Always "waiting for something to turn up" 

"Mr. Dick" A simple-minded relative of 

Miss Betsy Trotwood's 

Mr. Wickfield Miss Betsy's lawyer 

Agnes His daughter 

Uriah Heep His clerk 

Later, his partner 

Doctor Strong David's schoolmaster in Dover 

Dora Spenlow The daughter of David's employer 

and his "child-wife" 



DAVID COPPERFIELD 



DAVID'S EARLY UPS AND DOWNS 

There was once a little boy by the name of David 
Copperfield, whose father had died before he was 
born. The night he was born his great-aunt, Miss 
Betsy Trotwood — a grim lady with a black cap tied 
under her chin and a great gold watch chain — 
came to the house to ask his mother to name the 
baby, which she took for granted was a girl, after 
her; but as soon as she found it was a boy she 
flounced out in anger and never came back again. 

The first thing David remembered was living in 
a big country house in England with his pretty, 
golden-haired mother and with Peggotty, his nurse, 
a red-faced, kindly woman, with a habit of wearing 
her dresses so tight that whenever she hugged him 
some buttons would fly off the back. He loved his 
mother dearly — so dearly that when a tall, hand- 
some man named Murdstone began to come to see 
her in the evenings David was jealous and sad. 
Mr. Murdstone acted as if he liked him, and even 
took him riding on his horse; but there was some- 
thing in his face that David could not like. 

One summer day David was sent off with Peg- 
105 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

gotty for a two weeks' visit to her brother's house 
in Yarmouth. Yarmouth was a queer fishing town 
on the sea-coast, and the house they went to was the 
queerest thing in it. It was made of an old barge, 
drawn up high and dry on the beach. It had a 
chimney on one side and little windows, and there 
were sea-shells around the door. David's room was 
in the stern, and the window was the hole which the 
rudder had once passed through. Everything 
smelled of salt water and lobsters, and David 
thought it was the most wonderful house in the 
world. 

He soon made friends with the family — Mr. 
Peggotty, a big fisherman with a laugh like a gale 
of wind; Ham, his nephew, a big, overgrown boy 
who carried David from the coach on his back, and 
Mrs. Gummidge, who was the widow of Mr. Peg- 
gotty's drowned partner. 

And, last of all, there was a beautiful little girl 
with curly hair and a string of blue beads around 
her neck whom they called Little Em'ly. She was 
an orphan niece of Peggotty's. None of these peo- 
ple belonged to Mr. Peggotty, but, though he was 
only a poor fisherman himself, he was so kind that 
he gave them all a home. David played with lit- 
tle Em'ly, and went out in the boat with Mr. 
Peggotty, and enjoyed his visit greatly, though he 
grew anxious to see his mother again. 

He had no idea what had happened to her till 
he got back home with Peggotty. Then he found 
io6 



DAVID COPPERFIELD 

why he had been sent off on his visit. While he 
was away his mother had married Mr. Murdstone. 

David found things sadly altered after this. Mr. 
Murdstone was a hard, cruel master. He cared 
nothing for the little boy and was harsh to him in 
everything. He even took away David's own cozy 
bedroom and made him sleep in a gloomy cham- 
ber. When he was sad Mr. Murdstone called him 
obstinate and locked him up and forbade his 
mother to pet or comfort him. 

David's mother loved him, but she loved her new 
husband, too, and it was a most unhappy state of 
things. To make it worse, Mr. Murdstone's sister 
came to live with them. She was an unlovely old 
maid with big black eyebrows, and liked David no 
better than her brother did. 

After this there were no more pleasant hours of 
sitting with his mother or walking with her to 
church, for Mr. Murdstone and his sister kept 
them apart. The only happy moments David spent 
were in a little upper room where there was a col- 
lection of books left by his dead father. He got 
some comfort from reading these. 

Mr. Murdstone made David's mother give him 
hard tasks and lessons to do, and when David re- 
cited them he and his sister both sat and listened. 
To feel their presence and disapproval confused 
the little fellow so much that even when he knew 
his lesson he failed. 

One day when he came to recite he saw Mr. 
107 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Murdstone finishing the handle of a whip he had 
been making. This frightened him so that he 
could scarcely remember a word. Mr. Murdstone 
grasped him then and led him to his room to whip 
him. 

Poor little David was so terrified that he hardly 
knew what he was doing, and in his agony and ter- 
ror, while the merciless blows were falling, he 
seized the hand that held him and bit it as hard as 
he could. Mr. Murdstone then beat him almost to 
death and locked him in the room. 

He was kept there for five days with only bread 
and milk to eat. Every day he was taken down for 
family prayers and then taken back again, and dur- 
ing prayers he was made to sit in a corner where 
he could not even see his mother's face. He had to 
sit all day long with nothing to do but think of 
Mr. Peggotty's house-boat and of little Em'ly and 
wish he was there. The last night Peggotty, his 
nurse, crept up and whispered through the key- 
hole that Mr. Murdstone was going to send him 
away the next day to a school near London. 

The next morning he started in a carrier's cart. 
His mother was so much in awe of Mr. Murdstone 
that she hardly dared kiss David good-by, and he 
saw nothing of Peggotty. But as he was crying, 
Peggotty came running from behind a hedge and 
jumped into the cart and hugged him so hard that 
all the buttons flew off the back of her dress. 

The man who drove the cart was named Barkis. 

io8 



DAVID COPPERFIELD 

He seemed to be very much taken with Peggotty, 
and after she had gone back David told him all 
about her. Before they parted he made David 
promise to write her a message for him. It was a 
very short message — "Barkis is willin'." David 
didn't know in the least what the driver meant, but 
he promised, and he sent the message in his very 
first letter. 

Probably Peggotty knew what he meant, though, 
for before David came back again Mr. Barkis and 
she were courting. However, that has not much to 
do with this part of the story. 

The school to which Mr. Murdstone had sent 
him was a bare building with gratings on all 
the windows like a prison, and a high brick wall 
around it. It was owned by a man named Creakle, 
who had begun by raising hops, and had gone into 
the school business because he had lost all of his 
own and his wife's money and had no other way to 
live. He was fat and spoke always in a whisper, 
and he was so cruel and bad-tempered that not only 
the boys, but his wife, too, was terribly afraid of 
him. 

He nearly twisted David's ear oflf the first day, 
and he made one of the teachers tie a placard to 
David's back (this, he said, was by Mr. Murd- 
stone's order) which read: 



TAKE CARE OF HIM 
HE BITES 

109 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

To have .to wear this before everybody made 
David sorrowful and ashamed, but luckily a good- 
natured boy named Tommy Traddles, who liked 
David's looks, said it was a shame to make him 
wear it, and as Tommy Traddles was very popular, 
all the other boys said it was a shame, too. So, be- 
yond calling him "Towser" for a few days, and 
saying "Lie down, sir!" as if he were a dog, they 
did not make much fun of him while he wore it. 

Besides Tommy Traddles, David liked best the 
head boy, James Steerforth — the oldest boy in the 
school, and the only one Creakle did not dare beat 
or mistreat. Steerforth took David under his wing 
and helped him with his lessons, while in return 
David used to tell him stories from the books he 
had read. 

What with the beatings and tasks, David was 
glad enough when vacation time came. But his 
home-coming was anything but pleasant. He 
found his mother with a little baby, and she looked 
careworn and ill. 

Mr. Murdstone, he saw at once, hated him as 
much as ever, and Miss Murdstone would not let 
him even so much as touch his baby brother. He 
was forbidden to sit in the kitchen with Peggotty, 
and when he crept away to the upper room with 
the books Mr. Murdstone called him sullen and ob- 
stinate. David was so miserable every day that he 
was almost glad to bid his mother good-by, and as 
he rode away, to look back at her as she stood 



DAVID COPPERFIELD 

there at the gate holding up her baby for David 
to see. 

That was the last picture David carried in his 
heart of his pretty mother. One day not long after, 
he was called from the school-room to the parlor, 
and there Mr. Creakle told him that his mother 
was dead and that the baby had died, too. 

David reached home the next day. Peggotty 
took him into her arms at the door and called his 
mother her "dear, poor pretty," and comforted 
him, but he was very sad. It seemed to him that 
life could never be bright again. 

After the funeral Miss Murdstone discharged 
Peggotty and, probably not knowing what else to 
do with him, let David go with the faithful old 
servant down to the old house-boat at Yarmouth, 
where he had been visiting when his mother was 
married to Mr. Murdstone. 

The wonderful house on the beach was just the 
same. Mr. Peggotty and Ham and Mrs. Gum- 
midge were still there, with everything smelling 
just as usual of salt water and lobsters; and little 
Em'ly was there, too, grown to be quite a big girl. 
It seemed, somehow, like coming back to a dear old 
quiet home, where nothing changed and where all 
was restful and good. 

But this happiness was not to last. David had to 
go home again, and there it was worse than ever. 
He was utterly neglected. He was sent to no 
school, taught nothing, allowed to make no friends. 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

And at last Mr. Murdstone, as if he could think 
of nothing worse, apprenticed him as a chore boy 
in a warehouse in London. 

The building where David now was compelled 
to work was on a wharf on the river bank, and was 
dirty and dark and overrun with rats. Here he had 
to labor hard for bare living wages, among rough 
boys and rougher men, with no counselor, hearing 
their coarse oaths about him, and fearing that one 
day he would grow up to be no better than they. 
He was given a bedroom in the house of a Mr. 
Micawber, and this man was, in his way, a friend. 

There was never a better-hearted man than Mr. 
Micawber, but he seemed to be always unlucky. 
He had a head as bald as an egg, wore a tall, 
pointed collar, and carried for ornament an eye- 
glass which he never used. He never had any 
money, was owing everybody who would lend him 
any, and was always, as he said, "waiting for some- 
thing to turn up." With this exception David had 
not a friend in London, and finally Mr. Micawber 
himself was put in prison for debt, and his relatives, 
who paid his debts to release him, did so on condi- 
tion that he leave London. So at length David had 
not even this one friend. 

David bore this friendless and wretched life as 
long as he could, but at length he felt that he could 
stay at the warehouse no longer and made up his 
mind to run away. 

The only one in the world he could think of who 



DAVID COPPERFIELD 

might help him was — whom do you think? His 
great-aunt, Miss Betsy Trotwood, who had left 
his mother's house the night he was born because 
he did not happen to be a girl. She was the only 
real relative he had in the world. 

She lived, Peggotty had told him, in Dover, and 
that was seventy miles away; but the distance did 
not daunt him. So one day he put all his things 
into a box and hired a boy with a cart to take it 
to the coach office. But the boy robbed him of all 
the money he had (a gold piece Peggotty had sent 
him) and drove ofif with his box besides, and poor 
David, crying, set out afoot, without a penny, in 
the direction he thought Dover lay. 

That evening he sold his waistcoat to a clothes- 
dealer for a few pennies, and when night came he 
slept on the ground, under the walls of Mr. 
Creakle's old school where he had known Steer- 
forth and Tommy Traddles. The next day he of- 
fered his jacket for sale to a half-crazy old store- 
keeper, who took the coat but would not pay him at 
first, and David had to sit all day on the door-step 
before the other would give him the money. 

The next four nights he slept under haystacks, 
greatly in fear of tramps, and at length, on the sixth 
day, ragged, sunburned, dusty and almost dead 
from weariness, he got to Dover. 

He had to ask many people before he could find 
out where Miss Betsy Trotwood lived. It was out- 
side the town, in a cottage with a little garden. 

H3 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Here she lived all alone, except for a simple- 
minded old man, whom she called Mr. Dick, 
who was a relative of hers, and who did nothing all 
day but fly big kites and write petitions to the king, 
which he began every morning and never finished. 
All the neighbors thought Miss Betsy Trotwood a 
most queer old woman, but those who knew her best 
knew that she had a very kind heart under her grim 
appearance. 

When David reached the house Miss Betsy was 
digging at some flowers in the garden. All she 
saw was a ragged, dirty little boy, and she called 
out, without even turning her head : "Go away ; no 
boys here!" 

But David was so wretched that he went right 
in at the gate and went up behind her and said : "If 
you please, aunt, I'm your nephew." 

His aunt was so startled at his looks and at what 
he said, that she sat down plump on the ground; 
and David, his misery getting all at once the better 
of him, sobbed out all the pitiful tale of his wrongs 
and sorrows since his mother had died. 

Miss Betsy Trotwood's heart was touched. She 
seized David by the collar, led him into the house, 
made him drink something and then made him lie 
down on the sofa while she fed him hot broth. 
iThen she had a warm bath prepared, and at last, 
very tired and comfortable, and wrapped up in a 
big shawl, David fell asleep on the sofa. 

That night he was put to bed in a clean room, 
114 



DAVID COPPERFIELD 

and before he slept he prayed that he might never 
be homeless and friendless again. 

II 

LITTLE EM'LY 

Good fortune was with David now. His aunt 
wrote to Mr. Murdstone, and he and his sister 
came, fully expecting to take the boy back with 
them, but, instead. Miss Betsy told Mr. Murdstone 
plainly that he was a stony-hearted hypocrite, who 
had broken his wife's heart and tortured her son, 
and she ordered him and his sister from the house. 
David was so delighted at this that he threw his 
arms around her neck and kissed her, and from 
that moment Miss Betsy Trotwood began to love 
him as if he had been her own son. 

David loved her in return. He drove out with 
her and helped Mr. Dick fly his kites and was very 
grateful. And at length his aunt placed him in a 
school in Dover and found him pleasant lodgings 
there in the house of her lawyer, Mr. Wickfield. 

It was a different sort of school from what his 
first had been. His teacher was a Doctor Strong, 
and the school-boys were not the frightened, ill- 
treated lot he had known at Mr. Creakle's house. 
He was happy there, but his happiest hours of all 
were those spent, after school was out, at Mr. 
Wickfield's. The lawyer had an only daughter, 
115 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Agnes, just David's age, a sweet, gentle girl, who 
seemed to live for her father, and whom David 
came to consider before long almost as a sister. 

One person connected with the lawyer's house- 
hold whom he did not like so well was Uriah Heep. 
Heep was a high-shouldered, red-headed, bony 
young man, with no eyebrows or eyelashes, and 
with long skeleton fingers. He dressed all in black, 
and his hands were clammy and cold, like a fish, so 
that it chilled one to touch them. He never smiled 
— the nearest he could come to it was to make two 
creases down his cheeks. He was always cringing 
and pretending to be humble, but really he was a 
sneak and a scoundrel at heart. David detested 
him without knowing why, the more so when he 
came to see that Heep was gaining an influence 
over Agnes's father. All the while, too, Heep pre- 
tended to like David, though David knew very 
well he did not. 

So time went on. David studied hard and was a 
favorite with both pupils and teachers. At length 
he was head boy himself, and at seventeen his 
school life was finished. 

He parted regretfully from Doctor Strong and 
from Agnes, and after paying his aunt. Miss Betsy 
Trotwood, a visit, he started ofif to Yarmouth to 
see his old nurse, now the wife of Barkis, the 
driver, and just as fond of David as ever. On his 
way through London, as it happened, David met 
the old school-fellow whom he had so liked, James 

ii6 



DAVID COPPERFIELD 

Steerforth, and, loath to part with him so quickly, 
he proposed that the latter accompany him to Yar- 
mouth. 

Steerforth agreed and they went together. They 
took dinner at Peggotty's and spent the first even- 
ing in the old house-boat, where Mr. Peggotty still 
lived with Ham and Mrs, Gummidge and little 
Em'ly, the latter now grown to be a lovely girl and 
engaged to marry Ham. They spent some weeks 
there, each amusing himself in his own way, and 
soon Steerforth was as popular as David had al- 
ways been, for he sang beautifully and talked en- 
tertainingly, and all, from Mr. Peggotty to little 
Em'ly, thought they had never seen so brilliant and 
handsome a lad. 

If David could have read the thoughts that were 
in Steerforth's mind he would have grieved that 
he had ever brought him to that peaceful, innocent 
spot. For Steerforth had changed since the old 
school-days when David had been so fond of him. 
He had learned wickedness, and now, while he was 
exerting himself in every way to make the Peg- 
gottys like and admire him, in his heart he was 
trying to fascinate little Em'ly and to steal her 
love that she had given to Ham, till she would 
leave her home and run away with him to a foreign 
country. This, however, David could not guess, 
nor could any of the others, who regretted when the 
tsvo friends' visit was over. 

Now that his school-days were finished David's 
117 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

aunt had planned for him to study law in an office 
in London, and accordingly David began his new 
life there, very near the street where he had once 
toiled, a wretched, friendless helper, in the dirty 
warehouse on the dock. He found Tommy Trad- 
dies, who had stood his friend at Mr. Creakle's 
school, studying now to be a lawyer also, and 
boarding, curiously enough, at the house of Mr. 
Micawber, who had drifted back to London, still 
as poor and as hopeful as ever and still "waiting 
for something to turn up." 

In spite of these and all his new acquaintances, 
David was very lonely at first and missed Agnes, 
who all through his life at Doctor Strong's school 
had been his friend and adviser. 

He saw her once when she was visiting in Lon- 
don, and then she had bad news to tell him; her 
father had been steadily failing in health and busi- 
ness, and little by little Uriah Heep, his red-headed 
clerk with the clammy hands, had got him and his 
afifairs into his power and made himself a partner 
in the firm. David guessed that Heep had planned 
to entrap her father so as to compel Agnes herself 
to marry him, and this suspicion made David de- 
spise the clerk more and more. But he knew of no 
way to help. 

All this time he often saw Steerforth, but never 
guessed how often the latter had been secretly to 
see little Em'ly or of the wicked part he was play- 
ing. But one day David heard that Barkis, Peg- 

ii8 



DAVID COPPERFIELD 

gotty's husband (whose early courtship he himself 
had aided when he took her the message "Barkis 
is willin' ") had died, and David went at once to 
Yarmouth to try to comfort his old nurse in her 
loss. 

While he was there the blow came which caused 
such sorrow to all who lived in the old house-boat. 
Little Em'ly, the pride and joy of Mr. Peggotty's 
tender heart, ran away with Steerforth. 

She left a letter, begging them to forgive her, 
especially her uncle, Mr. Peggotty — and bidding 
them all good-by. It broke Mr. Peggotty's heart, 
and Ham's, too. And David was scarcely less sor- 
rowful. Because, for what he had done. Steer- 
forth, whose friendship had been so much to him, 
could never be his friend again. 

But nothing could change Mr. Peggotty's love 
for little Em'ly. He determined to start out and 
search throughout the world for her; and, mean- 
time, Ham and Mrs. Gummidge were to stay there 
in the old home, to keep it looking just the same, 
with a lighted candle in the window every night, 
so that if little Em'ly by any chance came back it 
would be bright and warm to welcome her. Mr. 
Peggotty's parting words to David were : 

"I'm a-going to seek her far and wide. If any 
hurt should come to me, remember that the last 
word I left for her was, 'My unchanged love is 
with my darling child, and I forgive her.' " 



119 



iTALES FROM DICKENS 
III 

DAVID AND HIS CHILD-WIFE 

Though Agnes always held a large place in his 
heart, David was very impressionable. In the next 
few years he thought himself in love a good many 
times, but when finally he met Dora Spenlow, the 
daughter of one of the members of the law firm 
with which he was studying, he knew that all his 
other love-afifairs had been only fancies. Dora was 
blue-eyed, with cheeks like a pink sea-shell, and 
looked like a fairy. David fell head over ears in 
love with her the first time he ever saw her. He 
lost his appetite, and took to wearing tight gloves 
and shoes too small for him, and he used to put on 
his best clothes and walk around her house in the 
moonlight and do other extravagant things. 

They found a good deal of trouble in their love- 
making, for Dora was under the care of none other 
than the terrible sister of Mr. Murdstone, who had 
made David so miserable in his childhood, but he 
and Dora used to meet sometimes, and they sent 
each other letters through one of Dora's girl 
friends. David, perhaps, would not have done this 
if he had thought he would have a fair chance to 
win Dora; but with his old enemy. Miss Murd- 
stone, against him, he was afraid to tell her father 
of his love. But one day he told it to Dora, and she 
promised to marry him. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD 

Good luck, however, never comes without a bit 
of bad luck. Soon after this David came home to 
his rooms one night to find his aunt, Miss Betsy 
Trotwood, there, with her trunk and Mr. Dick, 
kites and all. She told David she had no other 
place to go; that she had lost all of her money and 
was quite ruined. 

This was misfortune indeed, for it seemed to put 
his hope of marrying Dora a great deal further 
aw^ay; but David faced the situation bravely and 
began at once to look for something to do outside 
of the law office to earn money enough to support 
them all. 

In this trouble Agnes was his true friend. He 
had written her already of his love for Dora and 
she had advised him. Through her now he found 
employment as secretary to his old schoolmaster, 
Doctor Strong, who had given up the school at 
Dover and had moved to London. He told Dora, 
of course, all about his changed prospects, but 
Dora was like a little butterfly who knew only how 
to fly about among flowers ; she hardly knew what 
poverty meant, and thought he was scolding when 
he told her. 

David worked hard in the morning at Doctor 
Strong's, in the afternoons at the law office, and in 
the evenings he studied shorthand so he might come 
to be a newspaper reporter. And all this while he 
wrote to Dora every day. 

It was one of these letters that at last betrayed 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

their secret. Dora dropped it from her pocket and 
Miss Murdstone picked it up. She showed it to 
Dora's father and he sent at once for David and 
told him angrily that he could never marry his 
child and that he must not see Dora any more. And 
David went home disconsolate. 

This might have ended their engagement for 
ever, but that same day Dora's father dropped dead 
of heart-disease. Instead of being rich he was 
found to have left no money at all, and Dora was 
taken to live with two aunts on the outskirts of 
London. David did not know what was best to do 
now, so he went to Dover to ask Agnes's advice. 

He was shocked at the changes he found there. 
Her father looked ill and scarcely seemed himself. 
Uriah Heep, his new partner, with his ugly, fawn- 
ing way and clammy hands, was living in their 
house and eating with them at their table. He had 
obtained more and more power over Mr. Wick- 
field and gloried in it. And the other seemed no 
longer to dare to oppose Uriah in anything. 

But in spite of all this, Agnes talked bravely and 
cheerfully with David. Under her direction, he 
wrote a letter to Dora's aunts, declaring his love 
and asking permission to call, and they, pleased 
with his frankness, gave their permission. Before 
the year was out David began to earn money with 
his shorthand, reporting speeches in Parliament for 
a newspaper. He had discovered besides that he 
could write stories that the magazines were glad 



DAVID COPPERFIELD 

to buy. So one day David married Dora and they 
went to housekeeping in a tiny house of their own. 

Life seemed very sweet to them both, though 
Dora, while she was the most loving little wife in 
the world, knew no more about housekeeping than 
a bird. The servants stole the silver spoons, and the 
storekeepers overcharged them, and the house was 
never tidy or comfortable. For a while David tried 
to make Dora learn these things, but when he chid 
her the tears would come, and she would throw her 
arms around his neck and sob that she was only his 
child-wife after all, and he would end by kissing 
her and telling her not to mind. She was most like 
a beautiful toy; and like a toy, she seemed made 
only to play with, just as she played with her dog 
Jip, instead of helping and encouraging David in 
his work. 

But at length Dora fell ill — so ill that they knew 
she was too frail and weak to get well and strong 
again. David carried her down stairs every day, 
and every day the burden grew lighter. She never 
complained, but called him her poor, dear boy, and 
one day she whispered that she was only his child- 
wife and could never have been more, so that it was 
better as it was! 

Agnes came, and was there w^hen Dora died. 
But for her comfort all the world would have been 
blank for poor David as he sat alone, longing for 
the child-wife who could never be his again ! 



123 



TALES FROM DICKENS 
IV 

DAVID FINDS ALL WELL AT LAST 

More than once during this life of David's with 
his child-wife he had seen Mr. Peggotty. The 
brave old man had searched Europe for little 
Em'ly in vain; then he had come back to London, 
feeling somehow that some day she would stray 
there. He used to walk the streets by night, look- 
ing at every face he passed. In the room where he 
lived he kept a candle always lighted and one of 
her dresses hanging on a chair for her. 

After Dora's death David joined in the search, 
and at length they did find poor little Em'ly. 
Steerforth had treated her cruelly and finally de- 
serted her, and she had crept back to London heart- 
broken and repentant, hoping for nothing but to 
die within sight of those who had loved her so. 

But nothing had dimmed Mr. Peggotty's love. 
Wretched as she was, he caught her in his arms, 
held her to his breast as he had done so often when 
she was a child, and told her she was still his own 
little Em'ly, just as she had always been. 

She was ill, but he nursed her back to health. 
Then he w^ent to Yarmouth to fetch Mrs. Gum- 
midge, and they and the little Em'ly that had been 
found took passage for Australia, where they might 
forget the dark past and find happiness in a new 
life. 

124 



DAVID COPPERFIELD 

But before they sailed fate had brought to 
naught the villainous plot that had been woven by 
Uriah Heep about Agnes and her father. And the 
one whom they had most to thank for this was Mr. 
Micawber. 

Heep had met Mr. Micawber once, when the 
latter, as usual, was in money difficulties, and, 
thinking to make a tool of him, had hired him for 
his clerk. Little by little Heep had then got the 
other into his debt, till Mr. Micawber saw no pros- 
pect before him but the debtors' prison. 

Threatening him with this, Heep tried to com- 
pel him to do various bits of dirty and dishonest 
work, at which the other's soul revolted until at 
length he made up his mind to expose his em- 
ployer. So, pretending obedience, Mr. Micawber 
wormed himself into all of the sneaking Heep's 
affairs, found out the evidence of his guilt, and 
finally taking all the books and papers from the 
office safe, sent for David and his friend Tommy 
Traddles and told them all he had discovered. 
They found it was by forgery that Heep had got 
Agnes's father into his power in the first place, and 
that among others whom he had robbed was 
David's aunt. Miss Betsy Trotwood, whose for- 
tune he had stolen. 

David and Tommy Traddles sent for Miss Betsy 

and for Agnes and her father, and they faced 

Uriah all together. He tried to brazen it out, but 

when he saw the empty safe he knew that all was 

125 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

known. They told him the only way he could save 
himself from prison was by giving back the busi- 
ness to Agnes's father, just as it had been years be- 
fore, when David had lived there, and by restoring 
to Miss Betsy Trotwood every cent he had robbed 
her of. This he did with no very good grace and 
with an especial curse for David, whom he seemed 
to blame for it all. 

In reward for Mr. Micawber's good services, 
Miss Betsy and Agnes's father paid off all his debts 
and gave him money enough to take him and his 
family to Australia. They sailed in the same vessel 
that carried Mr. Peggotty and little Em'ly. 

Before it sailed little Em'ly had written a letter 
to Ham, whose promised wife she had been before 
she ran away with Steerforth, begging his forgive- 
ness, and this letter she had asked David to give 
him after they had gone. Accordingly one day he 
went to Yarmouth to do this. 

That night a terrible storm arose. The wind was 
so strong that it uprooted trees and threw down 
chimneys and rolled waves mountain high on the 
sand where stood the old deserted house-boat of the 
Peggottys. Next morning David was awakened 
with the news that a Spanish ship had gone ashore 
and was fast going to pieces, and he ran to the 
beach, where all the town was gathered. 

He could see the doomed vessel plainly where 
the surf broke over her. Her masts had snapped 
short off and at every wave she rolled and beat the 
126 



DAVID COPPERFIELD 

sand as if she would pound herself to fragments. 
Several figures were clinging to the broken masts, 
and one by one the waves beat them off, and they 
went down for ever. 

At length but one was left, and he held on so long 
that a shout of encouragement went up from the 
throng. At this Ham, the bravest and strongest of 
all the hardy boatmen there, tied a rope about his 
waist and plunged into the sea to try to save him. 
But it was not to be. The same huge wave that 
dashed the vessel to pieces threw the rescuer back 
on the sand, dead. The body of the man he had 
tried to save was washed ashore, too, and it was that 
of James Steerforth, who had so wronged little 
Em'ly! 

So poor, great-souled Ham died, honest and 
faithful to the last, giving his life for the man who 
had injured him. And so, too, James Steerforth 
met his fate on the very spot where he had done 
such evil, for his corpse was found among the frag- 
ments of the old Peggotty house-boat, which the 
tempest tore down that night. 

After this David went abroad and stayed three 
years. He lived in Switzerland, and wrote novels 
that were printed in London and made him famous 
there. 

And now, alone, he had time to think of all that 
made up his past. He thought of Dora, his child- 
wife, and sorrowed for her, and of the Peggottys 
and little Em'ly; but most of all he found himself 
127 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

thinking of Agnes, who, throughout his youth, had 
seemed like his guiding star. 

So one day he went back to England and told 
her, and asked her if she would marry him. And 
with her sweet face on his breast she whispered that 
she had loved him all her life! 

David and Agnes lived long and happily, and 
their children had three guardians who loved them 
all — Miss Betsy Trotwood, David's old nurse, Peg- 
gotty, and white-haired Mr. Dick, who taught 
them to fly kites and thought them the greatest 
children in the world. Tommy Traddles, when he 
had become a famous lawyer, often visited them, 
and once, too, Mr. Peggotty, older, but still hale 
and strong, came back from Australia to tell them 
how he had prospered and grown rich, and had al- 
ways his little Em'ly beside him, and how Mr. 
Micawber had ceased to owe everybody money and 
had become a magistrate, and many other things. 

David had one thing, however, to tell Mr. Peg- 
gotty, and that was of a certain prisoner he had 
seen in one of the country's greatest prisons, sen- 
tenced for life for an attempt to rob the Bank of 
England, and whose name was — Uriah Heep. 



128 



GREAT EXPECTATIONS 

Published 1860-1861 

Scene: London, Neighboring Towns and the Country 
Time: 1830 to i860 

CHARACTERS 

PhiHp Pirrip An orphan boy 

Known as "Pip" 

Joe Gargery A blacksmith 

"Mrs. Joe" His wife 

Pip's sister 

Uncle Pumblechook Joe's pompous uncle 

Wopsle Clerk of the village church 

Later, an actor 

Orlick A workman of Joe's 

Biddy A girl friend of Pip's and Mrs. Joe's nurse 

Later, Joe's wife 

Abel Magwitch A convict 

Miss Havisham An eccentric woman once disap- 
pointed in love 

Estella Her ward 

In reality, Magwitch's daughter 

Compeyson. . . .Miss Havisham's former suitor and deceiver 

A convict 

Mr. Jaggers Lawyer for Miss Havisham 

and for Magwitch 

Wemmick His clerk 

Mr. Pocket Pip's tutor 

Mrs. Pocket His wife 

Herbert Pocket His son. Pip's comrade in London 

129 



GREAT EXPECTATIONS 



PIP AND THE CONVICT 

In England, in a lonely village not far from 
London, there once lived a little orphan boy named 
Philip Pirrip, whom everybody called, for short, 
"Pip." His parents had died when he was a baby, 
and he had been brought up by his older sister, the 
wife of Joe Gargery, a blacksmith Avhose forge 
looked out across wide marshes and a river that 
flowed through them. 

Joe, the blacksmith, was a fair-faced man with 
flaxen whiskers and very bright blue eyes. He was 
a mild, honest, good-natured, sweet-tempered, 
easy-going, foolish, dear fellow, tender-hearted 
and kind to little Pip and yet a Hercules for 
strength. 

Very different, indeed, was "Mrs. Joe," as every- 
body spoke of her. She was tall and bony and had 
black hair, a red skin and a continual habit of 
scolding. She may have loved Pip in her way, but 
that way was a very cross-grained one. She treated 
Joe, the big blacksmith, and Pip, the little boy, just 
alike, and they were both equally in dread of her. 
This made them quite like partners. Whenever 

I3T 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Pip came into the house he used to look at Joe's 
fingers; if Joe crossed them that was a sign Mrs. 
Joe was cross and that Pip was to look out for him- 
self. 

Joe had an uncle named Pumblechook, who was 
a corn seller in the next town and a pompous old 
hypocrite. He had a way of standing Pip before ■ 
him, rumpling up his hair and asking him hard 
questions out of the multiplication table. And 
whenever he told a story of any one who was un- 
grateful or wicked he would glower at Pip in a 
way that made him feel very uncomfortable. 

Another who came as often and was almost as 
dismal to see was Wopsle, the clerk, who read the 
lesson in church every Sunday. He had an idea he 
would make a great actor and used to recite whole 
pages from Shakespeare when he could find any 
one to listen to him. 

Worst of all was a workman of Joe's named Or- 
lick. He was a loose-limbed, swarthy, slouching 
giant with a hangdog look. He used to tell Pip 
that the devil lived in a certain corner of the forge, 
and once in every seven years the fire had to be re- 
kindled with a live boy. Orlick at heart disliked 
everybody — especially harmless little Pip — and 
often quarreled with Mrs. Joe. 

Beside the blacksmith, the only one who under- 
stood Pip was a little girl named Biddy, about his 
own age and an orphan, too. She liked him and 
used to help him with his lessons at school. 
132 



GREAT EXPECTATIONS 

But in spite of Joe and Biddy, Pip was some- 
times so lonely and miserable that he would steal 
off alone to the village churchyard, where his 
father and mother lay buried, to cry. 

One afternoon — it was the day before Christmas 
— Pip was more wretched than usual, and was sit- 
ting crying among the graves when suddenly a 
rough voice spoke behind him. "Keep still, you 
little imp!" it said, "or I'll cut your throat!" With 
the words a man rose up from behind a tombstone 
and seized him. 

He was a fearful-looking man, dressed all in 
gray clothes, with a great iron band riveted on 
his leg. His shoes were torn, he had no hat and 
wore a ragged, dirty handkerchief tied around his 
head. He was soaked with water, caked with mud 
and limped and shivered as he walked. He set Pip 
on a tombstone and tilted him so far back that the 
church steeple seemed to turn a somersault, growl- 
ing at him in a terrible voice. 

Pip had never been so frightened in his life. 
With a trembling voice he begged his captor to 
spare him. The man asked him his name and where 
he lived, and told him he would let him go on one 
condition. He had to promise to come next morn- 
ing at daybreak to a certain spot in the marshes and 
to bring a file and something to eat. And the man 
said if Pip did not do so, or if he told any one what 
he was going to do, he would catch him again and 
cut out his heart and eat it. 
133 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

This terrible threat frightened poor little Pip 
more than ever. His voice shook so that he could 
hardly promise, and when the man set him down he 
ran home as fast as his legs would carry him. 

The evening was a miserable one. Pip thought 
he would save his own supper for the man in case 
he should not be able to get into his sister's pantry, 
so instead of eating his bread and butter he slipped 
it down his trouser-leg. 

Before long a great gun began to boom, and he 
asked Joe what it was. The blacksmith told him 
that in the river across the marshes were anchored 
some big hulks of ships, like wicked Noah's arks, 
where convicts were kept prisoners, and that the 
gun was a signal that some of these convicts had 
escaped. Then Pip knew the man he had promised 
to help was a criminal — perhaps a murderer — who 
had got away and was hiding from the soldiers. 

All night he did not sleep. He hated to steal the 
food, but he felt certain he would be killed if he 
did not. So at dawn he slipped down stairs, got a 
file from the forge, unlocked the pantry, took some 
bread and cheese and a pork pie that Uncle Pum- 
blechook had sent for Christmas dinner, and ran 
out through the foggy morning to the marshes. 

He had not got quite there when he came on a 
man in gray, sitting on the ground, with an iron 
fetter on his leg. Pip thought he was the one he 
was in search of, but as soon as the other turned 
his face he saw by a bruise on the cheek that he was 
134 



GREAT EXPECTATIONS 

not. This second man in gray, as soon as he saw 
him, sprang to his feet and ran away. 

Greatly wondering, Pip went on, and at the 
right spot he found the man who had frightened 
him in the graveyard. He seemed now to be almost 
starved, for he snatched the food and ate it like a 
hungry dog. He asked Pip if he had seen any one 
else on his way there, and Pip told him of the other 
man in gray who also wore an iron on his leg. 

He asked Pip to describe the other, and when 
Pip told of the bruised cheek, the man he was 
feeding flew into a rage. He began to curse, and, 
seizing the file, set to filing like mad at his fetter. 
Pip could see that he hated the other convict, and 
was sorry he had escaped; but he had fulfilled his 
promise now, so he turned and ran home again, 
and the last thing he heard was the rasp of the file 
as the man worked madly at the iron. 

Very guilty Pip felt all that Christmas morning. 
He went to church with Joe, and after service 
Uncle Pumblechook, Wopsle, the clerk, and other 
company came to dinner. He could not enjoy the 
good things to eat, for he knew now his sister must 
discover that the pork pie was gone. Just as she 
went to get it he got up from the table to run away, 
but as he opened the door he ran plump into a file 
of soldiers. 

He was sure at first they had come to arrest him 
for helping the convict, but he was soon relieved, 
when the officer at their head explained that they 
135 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

were on their way to search the marshes for the es- 
caped men and wanted the blacksmith to mend a 
broken handcuff. 

In the flurry of their arrival the pork pie was 
forgotten, while Joe mended the handcuff in the 
forge. When the soldiers left, the blacksmith set 
Pip on his broad shoulder, and he and Wopsle 
went striding with them to see the result of the 
hunt. 

It was sunset as the party entered the marshes, 
and the searchers opened out into a wide line. On 
a sudden all stopped, for a confused shouting had 
come from the distance. They ran toward it, cock- 
ing their guns, and Wopsle and Joe, with Pip on 
his shoulder, followed. The shouts became plainer 
and plainer. All at once they came to a ditch and 
in it the convict Pip had fed and the one with the 
bruised cheek were struggling fiercely together. 

The soldiers seized and handcuffed them both, 
the man with the bruised cheek pale and trembling, 
the other boasting that he had dragged the man he 
hated back to captivity, even though it cost him 
his own freedom. 

While the soldiers were preparing to take their 
prisoners back, Pip's convict saw the boy standing 
there with Joe. Pip hoped he would not think he 
had had anything to do with bringing the soldiers. 
He was pretty sure the man did not, because he 
presently told the officer, in every one's hearing, 
that the night before he had broken into a house 
136 



GREAT EXPECTATIONS 

where a blacksmith lived, near a church, and had 
stolen a pork pie. Joe heard this and so Pip knew 
that he himself would be clear of any blame. 

The convicts were taken back to their cells and 
Joe and Pip went home to tell the company of their 
adventure. But neither then nor ever afterward 
did Pip find courage to tell Joe the part he had 
played; for Pip loved the honest blacksmith and 
did not want him to think him worse than he really 
was. 

Time went on and Pip grew older and bigger, 
and though he never forgot the adventure of the 
churchyard, yet the memory of it grew dimmer. In 
the next few years only one thing happened to re- 
call it to him. 

One evening Mrs. Joe sent Pip to the village inn, 
The Three Jolly Bargemen, with a message. Pip 
found Joe there, sitting with a stranger — a secret- 
looking man, who held his head on one side and 
kept one eye perpetually shut as if he were tak- 
ing aim with a gun. This man, when he heard 
Pip's name, looked at him with a curious wink, 
and when no one but Pip was looking he took out 
of his pocket, to stir his drink with, the very file 
Pip had stolen from Joe's forge. 

Pip knew that minute that the man was a friend 
of the convict he had aided. When Pip left the 
inn the stranger called him back and gave him 
a shilling wrapped up in a piece of paper. 

When he got home Mrs. Joe (who took the prize 
137 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

away from him) discovered that the piece of paper 
was in reality two bank-notes, and both Joe and she 
wondered at it. The blacksmith tried next day to 
find the stranger to restore the money, but he had 
left the inn. 

So it always remained a mystery — to all but Pip 
of course, who knew in his heart that the convict 
had remembered his aid and had taken this means 
of repaying him. 

II 

THE QUEER MISS HAVISHAM 

One day, when Pip was considerably older, 
Uncle Pumblechook brought Mrs. Joe word that 
a Miss Havisham, a lady who lived in his own 
town, had heard of Pip, and wanted him to come 
to her house to see her. 

Miss Havisham was a very queer lady, indeed; 
so queer that some said she was crazy. But she was 
rich, and for this reason Mrs. Joe scrubbed Pip and 
dressed him in his best clothes and sent him ofif in 
care of Uncle Pumblechook, who took him as far 
as Miss Havisham's gate. 

Miss Havisham, when a beautiful young lady, 
had been engaged to marry a man named Com- 
peyson, whom she loved very much. He was a 
wicked, heartless villain, however, and had made 
her love him only that he might persuade her to 
give him great sums of money. 
138 



GREAT EXPECTATIONS 

The marriage day finally was fixed, her wed- 
ding-clothes were bought, the house was decorated 
for the ceremony, the bride-cake was put on the 
table in the dining-room and the guests arrived. 
But Compeyson, the bridegroom, did not come. 

Miss Havisham was dressing for the wedding 
when she received a cruel note from him telling 
her he did not intend to marry her. She had put on 
her white wedding gown and her lace veil and one 
of her satin slippers — the other lay on the dressing- 
table. It was exactly twenty minutes to nine o'clock 
when she read the note. 

She fainted and afterward lay for a long time 
ill. When she recovered she laid the whole place 
wa3te. She never afterward let the light of day into 
the old mansion. The shutters were closed, candles 
were kept always lighted, and all the clocks in the 
house were stopped at exactly twenty minutes to 
nine o'clock. Not a thing in any room was changed. 
The bride-cake rotted on the table, the decorations 
faded on the walls, and day after day Miss Havi- 
sham sat in the dressing-room clad in her wedding 
gown and veil, with one slipper on, the dead flow- 
ers on her table and the trunks for her wedding 
journey scattered about half-packed. In time she 
became shrunken and old and the white satin and 
lace became faded yellow, but she never varied 
this habit of life. 

Soon after her love disappointment she had writ- 
ten to her lawyer in London, who was named Jag- 
139 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

gers, asking him to find a baby girl for her to adopt 
as her own. Now Mr. J aggers had just defended in 
court a man named Abel Magwitch, the tool of 
Compeyson, who had broken Miss Havisham's 
heart. Compeyson had tempted Magwitch into 
passing some stolen money and they had both been 
arrested. At the trial Compeyson (sneak and liar 
as he was!) threw all the blame on his comrade, 
who was duller and less sharp than he, and as a 
consequence, while Compeyson got a light sentence, 
Magwitch, though really the more innocent of the 
two, had been sent to the prison-ship for a term of 
many years. These two men, by the way, were the 
pair who escaped from the hulks into the marshes. 
Magwitch was Pip's convict of the churchyard, 
and Compeyson was the one he had dragged back 
to capture. This Magwitch, at the time of his ar- 
rest, had a baby daughter, who had fallen into 
Mr. Jaggers's care, and in answer to Miss Havi- 
sham's request the lawyer had sent the little girl 
to her, telling her nothing whatever of the child's 
parentage. 

Miss Havisham had named the child Estella, 
and, seeing she would be a very beautiful woman, 
had determined to bring her up heartless and cold, 
to ruin as many men's lives as possible, so as to 
avenge her own wrongs and broken heart. 

So Estella had grown up in the dismal house. 
Miss Havisham's only companion. Day by day she 
became more lovely, and even while she was still a 
140 



GREAT EXPECTATIONS 

little girl, the same age as Pip, Miss Havisham was 
impatient to begin teaching her her lesson. 

This was the reason Pip had received his invita- 
tion to Miss Havisham's house. Though he had 
no idea of it, he was intended only as practice for 
little Estella, who under Miss Havisham's teach- 
ing was growing up very fond of admiration and 
very cold-hearted, too. 

Pip thought Miss Havisham the strangest lady 
he had ever seen, and the yellow satin, the candle- 
lighted rooms, and the stopped clocks seemed to 
him very odd. But Estella was so pretty that from 
the first moment he saw her he had no eyes for any- 
thing else. Even though she called him clumsy and 
common, and seemed to delight in hurting his feel- 
ings, Pip fell in love with her and could not help 
himself. Miss Havisham made them play together 
and told him to come again the next week. 

Pip went home in very bad humor on account of 
all the hurts which Estella had given his feel- 
ings. Uncle Pumblechook, being very curious to 
know all about his trip, bullied and questioned him 
so (beginning as usual with the multiplication 
table) that Pip, perfectly frantic, told him the most 
impossible tales. He said Miss Havisham was in a 
black coach inside the house, and had cake and 
wine handed to her through the coach window on 
a golden plate, and that he and she played with 
flags and swords, while four dogs fought for veal 

cutlets out of a silver basket. 
141 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

But when Uncle Pumblechook told Joe these 
wonders, Pip was remorseful. He went to the 
forge and confessed to Joe that he had been telling 
a falsehood, and promised he would never do so 
again. 

This visit was the first of many that Pip paid to 
the gloomy house whose shutters were always 
closed. Next time he went he was taken into the 
chamber where the decayed wedding-cake sat on 
the table. The room was full of relatives of Miss 
Havisham (for it was her birthday), who spent 
their lives flattering and cringing, hoping when she 
died she would leave them some money. 

After a time Pip went into the garden and there 
he met another relative in the person of a pale 
young gentleman about his own age, but larger, 
who promptly lowered his head, butted Pip in the 
stomach and invited him to fight. Pip was so sure 
nobody else's head belonged in the pit of his stom- 
ach that he obliged him at once, and as practice at 
the forge had made him tough, it was not many 
minutes before the pale young gentleman was lying 
on his back, looking up at him out of an exceed- 
ingly black eye and with a bleeding countenance. 

When Estella let Pip out of the gate that day he 
guessed that she had seen the encounter and that 
somehow it had pleased her, for she gave him her 
cheek to kiss. Yet he knew that at heart she thought 
him only a coarse, common boy, fit to be treated 

rudely and insolently. This thought rankled more 

142 



GREAT EXPECTATIONS 

and more in him. He made up his mind to study 
and learn, and he got faithful little Biddy to teach 
him all she knew. 

Pip saw no more of the pale young gentleman, 
though for almost a year he went to Miss Havi- 
sham's every other day. Each time he saw Estella 
and found himself loving her more and more. But 
she was always unkind, and often, when she had 
been ruder than usual, he saw that Miss Havisham 
seemed to take delight in his mortification. Some- 
times she would fondle Estella's hand, and he 
would hear her say : 

"That's right! Break their hearts, my pride and 
hope! Break their hearts and have no mercy!" 

One day Miss Havisham sent for Joe, the black- 
smith, and gave him a bag of money, telling him 
that he was not to send Pip to her any more, but 
that he should put him to work and teach him the 
trade of blacksmithing. So Uncle Pumblechook 
took Pip to town that very day and had him bound 
to Joe as an apprentice. 

This was just what Pip had once looked forward 
to with pleasure. But now it made him wretched. 
Through Estella's jeers he had come to feel that 
blacksmithing was common and low. As he helped 
Joe to blow the forge fire, he thought constantly 
of Estella's looks of disdain, yet in spite of all he 
longed to see her. 

On his first half-holiday he went to call on Miss 
Havisham. But there was no Estella. Miss Havi- 
143 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

sham told him she had sent her abroad to be edu- 
cated as a lady, and when the miserable tears 
sprang to Pip's eyes, she laughed. 

When he got home he confided in Biddy. He 
told her how he loved Estella, and that he wanted 
more than anything else in the world to be a gen- 
tleman. Meanwhile he began to study hard in any 
spare time he had, and Biddy helped him all she 
could. 

Pip might have fallen in love with Biddy if he 
had not had Estella always in his mind. Orlick, 
Joe's helper, indeed, thought he had done so, and 
it made him hate Pip more than ever, for he was in 
love with Biddy himself. He grew morose and 
quarrelsome and spoke so roughly to Mrs. Joe one 
day that she was not satisfied till the blacksmith 
took off his singed apron and knocked the surly 
Orlick flat in the coal dust. 

This was a costly revenge for Mrs. Joe, however. 
Orlick never forgave it, and a few nights after, 
when no one was at home but herself he crept in 
behind her in the kitchen and struck her a terrible 
blow on the head with a piece of iron. 

Hours afterward Joe found her lying senseless, 
and though she lived to recover a part of her senses, 
she never scolded or spoke again. She grew well 
enough at last to sit all day in her chair, but was so 
helpless that Biddy came to the house to be her 
nurse. It chanced that a prisoner had escaped from 
the prison-boats on the night Mrs. Joe was injured, 
144 



GREAT EXPECTATIONS 

and he was thought to be the one who attacked her. 
But Pip suspected Orlick all the while. 

So time went on. Once a year, on his birthday, 
Pip went to see Miss Havisham, but he never saw 
Estella there. And nothing else of particular im- 
portance occurred till he had been for four years 
Joe's apprentice. 

One night, as Pip sat with Joe before the fire in 
The Three Jolly Bargemen, they were called out 
by a gentleman whom Pip remembered to have 
seen once at Miss Havisham's. It was, as a matter 
of fact, Mr. Jaggers, her lawyer, who had sent Es- 
tella to her as a baby. 

The lawyer walked home with them, for he had 
a wonderful piece of news to relate. It was that an 
unknown benefactor, whose name he was not per- 
mitted to tell, intended when he died to leave Pip 
a fortune. In the meantime he wished to have him 
educated to become a gentleman, and as a lad of 
Great Expectations, and, the better to accomplish 
this, he wished Pip to go without delay to London. 

This great good fortune seemed so marvelous 
that Pip could hardly believe it. He had never im- 
agined Miss Havisham intended to befriend him, 
but now he guessed at once that she was this un- 
known benefactor. And he jumped next to another 
conclusion even more splendid — that she intended 
him sometime to marry Estella and was even then 
educating her for him. Pip went home almost in a 
dream, too full of his own prospects to see how sad 
145 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Biddy was beneath her gladness for him, or how 
sorrowful the good news made Joe. 

That night Estella's face came before him, more 
full of disdain than ever. As he thought of her 
and of the fine gentleman he was to be, the humble 
kitchen and forge seemed to grow commoner and 
meaner by contrast. He began to become a little 
spoiled and disdainful himself. 

The news soon spread about, and every one who 
had looked down upon Pip now gave him smiles 
and flattery. Uncle Pumblechook wept on his 
shoulder and (instead of telling him, as usual, that 
he was sure to come to a bad end) reminded him 
that he had always been his favorite. 

Mr. Jaggers had given Pip a generous amount 
of money to buy new clothes with, and these tended 
to make him more spoiled than ever. He began to 
feel condescending toward Biddy, and found him- 
self wondering whether, when he should be rich 
and educated, Joe's manners would not make him 
blush if they should meet. 

And even when the day came for him to bid them 
good-by and he climbed aboard the coach for Lon- 
don, he thought more of these things and his own 
good luck than of the home he was parting from 
for ever, or of the true and loving hearts he was 
leaving behind him. 

This was an ignoble beginning for Pip and one 
that he came afterward to remember with shame I 



146 



GREAT EXPECTATIONS 
III 

PIP DISCOVERS HIS BENEFACTOR 

Mr. Jaggers, the lawyer in whose care Pip 
found himself in London, was sharp and secret, 
and was so feared by criminals that they would 
never go near his house, though he never locked 
his door, even at night. 

He had a crusty clerk named Wemmick, as 
secret as he and a deal queerer. Wemmick lived in 
a little wooden cottage that he called The Castle, 
and which had its top cut out like a fort. It had a 
ditch all around it with a plank drawbridge. 
When he got home from the office in the evening 
he pulled up the drawbridge and ran up a flag on 
a flagstaff planted there. And exactly at nine 
every night he fired off a brass cannon that he kept 
in a latticework fortress beside it. 

Wemmick was the first one Pip met in London, 
and the clerk took him to the rooms where Mr. 
Jaggers had arranged for Pip to live, with the son 
of a gentleman who was to be his teacher. This 
gentleman was a Mr. Pocket, a relative (as Pip 
discovered) of Miss Havisham, which fact made 
him all the more certain that she was his unknown 
friend. Mr. Pocket's son was named Herbert, and 
the minute he and Pip first saw each other they 
burst out laughing. For Herbert was none other 
than the pale young gentleman who, years before 
147 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

in Miss Havisham's garden, Pip had last seen look- 
ing up at him out of a very black eye. 

They were excellent friends from that hour. 
They occupied the rooms together when they were 
in London, and Pip also had a room of his own at 
Mr. Pocket's house in the country. 

Mr. Pocket was a helpless scholarly man who 
depended on Mrs. Pocket to manage everything, 
and she depended on the servants. There were 
seven little Pockets of various ages tumbling about 
the house, and Mrs. Pocket's only idea of manage- 
ment seemed to be to send them all to bed when any 
one of them was troublesome. At such times Mr. 
Pocket would groan, put his hands in his hair, lift 
himself several inches out of his chair and then let 
himself down again. 

In spite of his oddities, however, Mr. Pocket was 
an excellent teacher, and Pip in some ways made 
progress. But his Great Expectations taught him 
bad habits. He found it so easy to spend money 
that he soon overstepped the allowance Mr. Jag- 
gers had told him was his, and not only had got into 
debt himself, but had led Herbert, who was far 
poorer, into debt also. 

Joe came to see him only once, and then Pip's 
spoiled eyes overlooked his true, rugged manliness 
and noted more clearly his awkward manners and 
halting speech. Joe was quick to see this difference 
in the Pip he had known and he did not stay long 
■ — only long enough to leave a message from Miss 
148 



GREAT EXPECTATIONS 

Havisham: that Estella had returned from abroad 
and would be glad to see him if he came. 

Pip lost no time in making this visit, and started 
the very next day. The old house looked just the 
same, but a new servant opened the gate for him: 
it was Orlick, as low-browed and sullen and surly 
as ever, and Pip saw at the first glance that his old 
hatred was still smoldering. 

Miss Havisham was in her room, dressed in the 
same worn wedding dress, and beside her, with dia- 
monds on her neck and hair, sat Estella. Pip 
hardly knew her, she had grown so beautiful. But 
she was proud and wilful as of old, and though he 
felt the old love growing stronger every moment, 
he felt no nearer to her than in those past wretched 
days of his boyhood. Before he left. Miss Havi- 
sham asked him eagerly if Estella was not more 
lovely, and, as he sat by her alone, she drew his 
head close to her lips and whispered fiercely: 

"Love her, love her, love her! If she favors you, 
love her! If she tears your heart to pieces, love her, 
love her, love her!" 

Though this visit took him so near the old forge, 
Pip did not go to see Joe and Biddy. Indeed, only 
once in the months that followed did he see them — 
when he went to attend the funeral of Mrs. Joe. 

After that he had no need to leave the city to see 

Estella, for Miss Havisham soon sent her to live 

in London. From there she required her to write 

letters weekly, telling how many men she had f asci- 

149 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

nated and made wretched. Pip saw her constantly 
and tortured himself with the growing belief that 
Miss Havisham's training (the purpose of which 
he had begun to guess) was really succeeding in 
crushing her heart, and was leaving her with no 
power to love any one. 

Thus, between hope and despair, Pip became of 
age. Mr. Jaggers now told him that a certain 
large sum was his to spe^d each year. He was 
deeply in debt and a great part of his first year's 
portion went to pay his creditors. But with the re- 
mainder he did a good and unselfish deed: he 
bought secretly a share in a good business for Her- 
bert, so that his comrade became a partner in it. 

A great blow was now to fall upon Pip without 
warning — something that changed the whole 
course of his life. One rainy night, when Herbert 
was away from London, as he sat alone in their 
rooms, a heavy step stumbled up the stair and a 
man entered. He was coarse and rough-looking 
and tanned with exposure, with a furrowed bald 
head, tufted at the sides with gray hair. 

There was something strangely familiar to Pip 
in his face, but at first he did not recognize him. 
Seeing this, the stranger threw down his hat, 
twisted a handkerchief around his head, took a file 
from his pocket and walked across the room with a 
curious shivering gait that brought back to Pip's 
mind, like a lightning flash, the scene in the church- 
yard so many years ago, when he had sat perched 
150 



GREAT EXPECTATIONS 

on a tombstone looking in terror at that same man's 
face. And he knew all at once that the man was the 
escaped convict of that day! 

It was a strange tale the new-comer told then, 
one that Pip's heart sank to hear. Miss Havisham 
had not been his benefactor after all. The one 
whose money had educated him, had set him there 
in London to live the life of a gentleman, the one 
to whom he was indebted for every penny he 
owned, was Abel Magwitch, a criminal — the con- 
vict for whom he had once stolen food years be- 
fore! 

Pip sank into a chair trembling as Magwitch, in 
a hoarse voice, told his story. He told how the man 
Compeyson had led him into crime and then de- 
serted him. How he had hated the other so fiercely 
that after they both had escaped from the prison- 
hulks he had dragged Compeyson back to impris- 
onment even at the loss of his own liberty. How 
for that attempt to escape he had been sentenced to 
transportation for life, and had been sent to Botany 
Bay in Australia, where in time he became in a 
measure free, though forbidden under penalty of 
death to return to England. How he had never for- 
gotten the little Pip who had tried to aid him, and 
how he had sworn that he would repay him many 
times over. How he had taken to sheep-raising and 
prospered, and became a rich man. How he had 
written to Mr. Jaggers, the lawyer who had de- 
fended him, and paid him to find Pip and educate 
151 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

him. And how at last he had dared even the death 
penalty to come to England to see how he fared. 

His voice shook as he told how he had slaved 
through all the years, looking forward only to this 
moment when he should come back to see the little 
Pip whom he had made into a gentleman. 

Poor Pip! It was an end to all his dreams of 
Miss Havisham and of Estella. He shrank from 
Magwitch, horrified at the bare thought of what he 
owed to him. He forced himself to utter some 
trembling words and set food before the convict, 
watching him as he ate like a ravenous old dog. 
His heart was like lead, all his plans knocked 
askew. Even while he pitied the old man, he 
shrank from him as if from a wild beast, with all 
his childish dread increased a hundredfold. 

At length Pip put Magwitch in Herbert's room 
to sleep, but all that night he himself lay toss- 
ing and sleepless, staring into the darkness and lis- 
tening to the rain outside. 

IV 

PIP COMES TO HIMSELF 

The days that followed were one long agony to 
Pip. When Herbert returned he told him the 
whole story. Herbert was shocked and surprised, 
but he was true to his friendship and together they 
planned what to do. 

152 



GREAT EXPECTATIONS 

It was clear to Pip that he could not spend any 
more of Magwitch's money; indeed, recoiling 
from him as he did, he would gladly have repaid 
every penny if it had been possible. To make the 
matter worse, it seemed that Magwitch had 
brought a great deal of money with him and was 
determined that Pip should move into a fashion- 
able house, buy fast horses, keep servants and live 
most expensively. 

Pip hesitated to tell Magwitch his decision, how- 
ever, for what the convict now planned showed 
how much he had thought of him and loved him in 
his rough way during all his years in Australia. 

Meanwhile he and Herbert kept Magwitch hid- 
den as much as possible, and gave out that the old 
man was Pip's uncle, on a visit from the country. 

Unluckily, however, Magwitch's presence in 
London had been seen. He had been recognized 
in the street and followed to Pip's rooms. And the 
man who saw him was his bitterest enemy — Com- 
peyson, the breaker of Miss Havisham's heart, who 
had first made Magwitch a criminal, and whom the 
convict so hated. Compeyson had served out his 
term, and was now free. He saw his chance to pay 
the old grudge with Magwitch's life. In order, 
however, to make sure of his capture he decided to 
entice Pip away and bring the police upon Mag- 
witch when he would have no one to warn him. 

Meanwhile, unconscious of this plot, Pip made 
a last visit to Miss Havisham. He felt now that he 
153 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

was again poor and without prospects, and with 
small hope of winning Estella. 

But finding her there, in Miss Havisham's pres- 
ence, he told her how dearly he had always loved 
her since the first day they had met. She seemed 
moved by his distress, but her heart had not yet 
awakened. She told him that she was about to 
marry one whom he knew for a coarse, brutal man, 
in every way beneath her. And then Pip knew for 
certain that Miss Havisham's bitter teaching had 
borne its fruit at last, and that Estella was to marry 
this man, not because she loved him, but merely as 
a final stab to all the other worthier ones. 

In spite of her years of self-torture and revenge- 
ful thoughts. Miss Havisham had still a spark of 
real pity. As Pip reminded her of the wreck she 
had made of him, through Estella, and through al- 
lowing him falsely to believe her his benefactor, his 
agony struck her with remorse. She put her hand 
to her heart as he ended, and as he left them he saw 
through his own tears her hand still pressed to her 
side and her faded face ghastly in the candlelight. 

Sick with despair, Pip went back to London, to 
learn from Wemmick, Mr. Jaggers's friendly 
clerk, that the rooms were being watched, and that 
he and Herbert (who in the absence of Pip had 
confided in him) had removed Magwitch to an- 
other lodging — a room overlooking the river, from 
which it would be easier, if worst came to worst, 
to get him on a ship and so out of the country. 

154 



GREAT EXPECTATIONS 

To do rhis it was necessary to wait for a favorable 
chance. So Pip, providing for Magwitch's com- 
fort meantime, bought a boat, and he and Herbert 
rowed daily up and down the river, so that when 
the time came to row the convict to some sea-going 
ship they would know the turns of the stream. 

Pip soon learned that Compeyson was their spy. 
Wopsle, who in Pip's boyhood had been the clerk 
in the village church, had turned actor (he made, 
to be sure, a very poor one!), and was now playing 
in London. In the theater one night he recognized 
in the audience the pale-faced convict whom he 
had once, with Joe, the blacksmith, and little Pip, 
seen dragged back to capture by his more power- 
ful fellow. Pip had long ago learned from Mag- 
witch that this man was Compeyson, and when 
Wopsle said he had seen him sitting directly back 
of Pip at the play, the latter realized that they had 
this bitter enemy to reckon with, and that Mag- 
witch was in terrible danger. 

Only once was this time of waiting interrupted, 
and that was by a letter from Miss Havisham beg- 
ging Pip to come to see her. He went, and she told 
him she realized now too late how wicked her plans 
had been, and begged him with tears to try to for- 
give her. Pip, sore as his own heart was, forgave 
her freely, and he was glad ever afterward that he 
had done so, for that same evening, while he was 
standing near her, her yellowed wedding veil, 
sweeping too near the hearth, caught fire and in 

155 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

an instant her whole dress burst into flame. Pip 
worked desperately to put out the fire, but she was 
so frightfully burned that it was plain she could 
not live long. His own hands and arms were 
painfully injured, so that he returned to London 
with one arm, for the time being, almost useless. 

Compeyson, meanwhile, made friends with Or- 
lick, and between them they wrote Pip a letter, de- 
coying him to a lonely hut in the marshes. When 
he came there Orlick threw a noose over his head, 
tied him to the wall and would have killed him 
with a great stone-hammer but for Herbert, who 
broke down the door and rushed in just in time to 
put Orlick to flight and to save Pip's life. Herbert 
had picked up the letter Pip had thrown down, 
read it, seen in it something suspicious, and had fol- 
lowed from London. 

Pip saw now there was no time to lose if he 
would save Magwitch. They made haste to Lon- 
don, and when night fell, took the convict in the 
rowboat and rowing a few miles down the river, 
waited to board a steamer bound for Germany. 

What happened next happened very speedily. 
They were about to board the steamer when a boat 
containing Compeyson and some police shot out 
from the bank, Compeyson calling on Magwitch 
to surrender. The two boats clashed together, and 
the steamer, unable to stop, ran them both down. 
At the same moment Magwitch seized Compeyson 
and they went into the water together. 
156 



GREAT EXPECTATIONS 

When Pip came to himself the steamer had gone, 
his own boat had sunk and he and Herbert had 
been dragged aboard the other. A few minutes 
later Magwitch was picked up, badly injured in 
the chest, and was handcuffed. But they did not 
find Compeyson — the other had killed him in that 
fearful struggle under water. 

That night Magwitch was lodged in jail. Before 
many days he was tried for returning to England 
and was sentenced to be hanged. But it was clear 
before the trial ended that his injury would never 
let him live to suffer this penalty. 

And now, as he saw the convict lying day by day 
drawing nearer to death, calling him "dear boy" 
and watching for his face, all the loathing and re- 
pugnance Pip had felt for him vanished away. He 
had sat beside the sick man at his trial; now he sat 
beside his cot each day in his cell, holding his hand. 
He knew there could be no longer any possibility 
of his taking the fortune the convict would leave, 
for, being condemned to death, all Magwitch's 
property went to the Crown. But he did not tell 
this to Magwitch. 

One thing he discovered, however, which he told 
the dying man. This concerned Estella. As the 
film of death came over the convict's face Pip said : 

"Dear Magwitch, you had a child once, whom 
you loved and lost. She is living still. She is a lady 
and very beautiful. And T love her!" And hearing 
this last glad news, Magwitch died, 
15; 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Before this happened Herbert had left England 
for Egypt where his business took him. Left alone, 
after the strain, Pip fell sick of a fever and in the 
midst of this found himself arrested for debt. 

That was the last he knew for many weeks. 
When he came to himself he found Joe, the true- 
hearted blacksmith, nursing him. He had paid 
Pip's debts. Miss Havisham was dead and Orlick 
had been sent to jail for robbing Uncle Pumble- 
chook's house. 

Joe's faithfulness smote Pip with a sense of his 
own ingratitude. After a visit to the old forge with 
Joe and Biddy, now Joe's wife, Pip felt how true 
were the old friends. He buried for ever the past 
false pride and folly and knew himself for all his 
trials a nobler man. 

He sailed to Egypt, where he became a clerk in 
Herbert's business house, and finally a partner, and 
it was eleven years before he was in England again. 

Then, one day he went down to the old ruined 
house where Miss Havisham had lived. 

He entered the weed-grown garden, and there 
on a bench, a sad, beautiful widow, sat Estella. 
Her husband had treated her brutally till he died, 
and she had learned through suffering to know that 
she had a heart and had thrown away the one thing 
that could have made her happy — Pip's love. 

When Pip and she left the old house that day it 
was hand in hand, never to part again. 



158 



LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF NICH- 
OLAS NICKLEBY 

Published 1839 

Scene: London, Portsmouth and the Country 
Ti7ne: About 1830 

CHARACTERS 

Nicholas Nickleby A young gentleman 

Mrs. Nickleby His mother 

Kate His sister 

Ralph Nickleby His uncle 

A miserly money-lender 

Noggs Ralph Nickleby's clerk 

Squeers The proprietor of Dotheboys Hall, a 

country school for boys 

Mrs. Squeers His wife 

Fanny Their daughter 

Wackford Their son 

Smike A poor drudge at Dotheboys Hall 

Befriended by Nicholas. In reality Ralph Nickleby's son 

Madame Mantalini A London dressmaker 

Kate's first employer 

Mr. Mantalini Her husband 

Miss Knag Her forewoman 

Sir Mulberry Hawk A dissolute man of the world 

Lord Frederick Verisopht A young nobleman 

Hawk's friend 

Mr. Vincent Crummies ]\Ianager of a theater in 

Portsmouth 

Mrs. Crummies His wife 

Ninetta Their daughter 

Known as "The Infant Phenomenon" 

]\lrs. ^^^ititterly A would-be fashionable lady 

Kate's second employer 

The Cheeryble Brothers Twin merchants 

Nicholas's benefactors 

Bray A spendthrift and invalid 

Madeline His daughter 

Gride A miser 

159 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY 



NICHOLAS AT DOTHEBOYS HALL 

Once on a time, in England, there were two 
brothers named Nickleby who had grown up to be 
very different men. Ralph was a rich and miserly 
money-lender who gained his wealth by persecut- 
ing the poor of London — a thin, cold-hearted, 
crafty man with a cruel smile. The other, who 
lived in the country, was generous but poor, so 
that when he died he left his wife and two children, 
Nicholas and Kate, with hardly a penny to keep 
them from starving. 

In their trouble the mother decided to go and 
try to obtain help from her husband's brother, 
Ralph Nickleby. 

Ralph was angry when he learned they had come 
to London, for he loved his gold better than any- 
thing else in the world. He lived in Golden 
Square, a very rich part of the city, in a great fine 
house, all alone save for one servant, and he kept 
only one clerk. 

This clerk, who was named Noggs, had one glass 
eye and long, bony fingers which he had an uncom- 
fortable habit of cracking together when he spoke 

i6i 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

to any one. He had once been rich, but he had 
given his money to Ralph Nickleby to invest for 
him, and the money-lender had ended by getting it 
all, so that the poor man at last had to become the 
other's clerk. When he first S2iw Nicholas and 
Kate, Noggs was sorry enough for them, because 
he knew it would be little help they would get from 
their stingy uncle. 

Nicholas was proud-mettled, and his very bear- 
ing angered the money-lender. He called him a 
young puppy, and a pauper besides, to which 
Nicholas replied with heat and spirit. His mother 
succeeded in smoothing things over for the time, 
and though Ralph Nickleby from that moment 
hated the boy, he grudgingly promised her to get 
him a situation as a teacher. 

The school the miser selected was one called 
Dotheboys Hall, a long, cold-looking, tumble- 
down building, one story high, in a dreary part of 
the country. It belonged to a man named Squeers, 
a burly, rullianly hypocrite, who pretended to the 
world to be a kind, fatherly master, but in fact 
treated his pupils with such cruelty that almost the 
only ones ever sent there were poor little orphans, 
whose guardians were glad to get rid of them. 
Squeers had an oily, wrinkled face and flat shiny 
hair, brushed straight up from his forehead. His 
sleeves were too long and his trousers too short, and 
he carried a leather whip about in his pocket to 
punish the boys with. 

162 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY 

Mrs. Squeers was a fat woman, who wore a 
soiled dressing-gown, kept her hair in curl papers 
all day, and always had a yellow handkerchief tied 
around her neck. She was as cruel as her husband. 
They had one daughter and a son named Wack- 
ford. The latter they kept as plump as could be, so 
he would serve as an advertisement of the school ; 
the rest of the boys, however, were pale and thin. 

No wonder, for they got almost nothing to eat. 
For dinner all they had was a bowl of thin por- 
ridge with a wedge of bread for a spoon. When 
they had eaten the porridge they ate the spoon. 
Once a week they were forced to swallow a dread- 
ful mixture of brimstone and sulphur, because this 
dose took away their appetites so that they ate less 
for several days afterward. They were made to 
sleep five in a bed, and were poorly clothed, for 
whenever a new boy came Mrs. Squeers took his 
clothes away from him for Wackford, and made 
the new boy wear any old ones she could find. 
They were allowed to write only letters telling 
how happy they were there, and when letters came 
for any of them, Mrs. Squeers opened them first 
and took for herself any money that they con- 
tained. 

There was no attempt at teaching at Dotheboys 
Hall. The books were dirty and torn and the 
classes were scarecrows. All the boys were made 
to work hard at chores about the place, and were 
flogged almost every day, so that their lives were 

'i6z 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

miserable. What Squeers wanted was the money 
their guardians paid him for keeping tliem. 

This was the kind of school for which Nicholas 
found himself hired at very low wages as a teacher. 

He knew nothing about it yet, however, and 
thought himself lucky and his uncle kind as he 
bade his mother and Kate good-by and took the 
coach for Dotheboys Hall. Noggs, Ralph Nickle- 
by's one-eyed clerk, was there to see him oflf, and 
put a letter into his hand as he started. Nicholas 
was so sad at leaving the two he loved best in the 
world, that he put it into his pocket and for the 
time forgot all about it. 

On his arrival next day Nicholas's heart sank 
into his boots. When he saw the boys gathered in 
the barn, which served for a school-room, he was 
ready to die with shame and disgust to think he 
was to be a teacher in such a place. 

But he had no money to take him back to Lon- 
don, and because he did not want to make his 
mother and Kate unhappy, he wrote them as cheer- 
fully as he could. The letter Noggs had given him 
he remembered at last to read. It told him the 
writer feared his uncle had deceived him in re- 
gard to the school, and said if Nicholas needed a 
friend at any time, he would find one in him, 
Noggs. These kind words from the old clerk 
brought tears to Nicholas's eyes. 

Of all the wretched boys there Nicholas pitied 
most a poor fellow named Smike, whom Squeers 
164 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY 

had made a drudge. He was tall and lanky and 
wore a little boy's suit, too short in the arms and 
legs. He had been placed there when a child, and 
the man who had brought him had disappeared 
and left no money to pay for his keep. Squeers's 
cruelties had made the unfortunate lad simple- 
minded. Besides this he was lame. Nicholas 
helped Smike all he could, and the poor fellow 
was so grateful that he followed the other about 
like a slave. 

Squeers's daughter was named Fanny. She had 
red hair, which she wore in five exact rows on the 
top of her head. She thought herself very beauti- 
ful and at once fell in love with Nicholas. As he 
could not help showing that he did not like her. 
Miss Fanny grew spiteful and in revenge began 
to persecute Smike, knowing Nicholas liked him. 

Smike stood this as long as he could, but at last 
one day he ran away. Squeers was furious. He 
took one chaise and Mrs. Squeers another, and 
ofif they went in different directions to find him. 
Nicholas was miserable, for he knew Smike would 
be caught. Sure enough, on the second day Mrs. 
Squeers returned, dragging her victim. When 
Squeers arrived Smike was taken from the cellar, 
where he had been locked up, and brought before 
the assembled boys for a public thrashing. 

At the rain of brutal blows which began Nich- 
olas's blood boiled. He stepped forward, crying 
^'Stop!" 

165 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

For answer Squeers struck him savagely in the 
face with his heavy ruler. Then Nicholas threw 
away his self-control, and leaping on the bully, 
to the unmeasured delight of the boys, took the 
ruler from him and thrashed him until he cried 
for mercy. AH the while Mrs. Squeers was trying 
to drag the victor away by his coat tails, while the 
spiteful Miss Fanny threw inkstands at his head. 

When his arm was tired Nicholas gave Squeers 
a final blow, which knocked him senseless into a 
corner, coolly went to his room, packed his few be- 
longings in a bundle and left Dotheboys Hall for 
ever. 

He was two hundred and fifty miles from Lon- 
don and had very little money. Snow was falling 
and for that night he took refuge in an empty barn. 
In the morning he awoke, startled, to see a figure 
sitting by him. It was Smike, who had followed 
him. 

The poor creature fell on his knees. "Let me go 
with you!" he cried. "I want no clothes and I can 
beg my food. I will be your faithful servant. Only 
let me go with you." 

"And so you shall!" said Nicholas. "ComeT' 
He rose, took up his bundle, gave his hand to 
Smike and so they set out toward London together. 



i66 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY 
II 

NICHOLAS BECOMES AN ACTOR 

Meanwhile Ralph Nickleby, the money-lender, 
had given Kate and her mother leave to live in a 
rickety, unoccupied house which he owned. It 
was a dingy building on an old wharf, but Noggs, 
the clerk, himself cleaned and furnished one of its 
rooms so that it was fairly comfortable. When they 
were settled Ralph took Kate to a dressmaker's, 
where he got her a situation, hoping thus they 
would not call on him for any money. 

The dressmaker called herself Madame Man- 
talini. Her real name was Muntle, but she thought 
the other sounded better. Her husband was a 
plump, lazy man with huge side-whiskers, who 
spent most of the time curling them and betting on 
horse-races. He gambled away all the money 
Madame Mantalini made, but he pretended to be 
terribly fond of her, and was always calling her 
his "little fairy" and his "heart's delight," so that 
the silly woman always forgave him. He tried to 
kiss Kate the first day, which made her detest him. 

At Madame Mantalini's Kate had to stand up 
all day trying on dresses for rich ladies, who were 
often rude to her. And because they preferred to 
be waited on by the pretty, rosy-cheeked girl, Miss 
Knag, the ugly forewoman, hated the child, and 
did all she could to make her unhappy. 
167 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Kate's mother used to wait each evening on the 
street corner outside, and they would walk home 
together. They had no idea what trouble Nicholas 
was having all this time, because he had written 
them such cheerful letters, and whenever they felt 
sadder than usual they would comfort themselves 
by thinking how well he was getting along and 
what a fine position he had. 

If they could have seen him when he finally got 
to London after running away from Dotheboys 
Hall, they would hardly have known him. Both 
he and poor Smike were hungry and muddy and 
tired. Remembering Noggs's kind letter, Nich- 
olas went first to the little garret where the clerk 
lived, and through him he found a cheap room on 
the roof of the building, which he rented for him- 
self and Smike. Then he started out to find his 
mother and Kate. 

He would have hastened if he had guessed 
what was happening or how badly Kate had been 
treated by Ralph Nickleby. 

The evening before, as it happened, Kate had 
been invited to dinner at her uncle's fine house, and 
there she had met two dissipated young men — 
Lord Frederick Verisopht and Sir Mulberry 
Hawk, the latter of whom had looked at her and 
talked to her so rudely that she had indignantly left 
the table and gone home. She had not slept a wink 
that night, and the next morning, to make her and 
her mother more wretched still, Ralph Nickleby 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY 

called with a letter he had just received from 
Fanny Squeers, declaring that Nicholas was a 
thief and a scoundrel ; that he had tried to murder 
her father and all his family, and had run off with 
one of the pupils of Dotheboys Hall. 

To be sure, neither of them believed it, but it 
made them very unhappy. And then, just as Ralph 
was reading them the last line of the letter, in came 
Nicholas ! You may be sure he comforted them and 
told them it was a lie. He told Ralph what he 
thought of him also in stern language, which made 
his uncle angrier than ever. 

Then, seeing that his presence was making things 
worse, and realizing in what poverty his dear ones 
were, and that they were so wholly dependent on 
Ralph for help, Nicholas came to a very brave de- 
termination. He told them that, as he could not 
help them himself, he would go away from them 
until his fortune bettered. So, bidding them good- 
by, and telling his uncle he should keep watch over 
them and that if any harm came to them he would 
hold him accountable, Nicholas went sadly back 
to his garret room and to Smike. 

He tried hard for some days to find a situation, 
but failed, and he would not take money from 
Noggs, who was so poor himself. So at last, with 
Smike, he set out on foot for Portsmouth, which 
was a seaport, thinking there they might find a 
chance to go as sailors in some ship. 

At an inn on the way, however, Nicholas met a 
169 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

man who caused him to change all his plans. This 
man was a Mr. Vincent Crummies. When Nich- 
olas first saw him in the inn he was teaching his 
two sons to make-believe fight with swords. They 
were practising for a play, for Mr. Crummies was 
manager of a theater in Portsmouth, and he pro- 
posed that Nicholas join the company and become 
an actor. 

There seemed nothing else to do, so Nicholas 
agreed, and next day they went to the Portsmouth 
theater, where he was introduced to all the com- 
pany. 

It was a very curious mixture. There was Mrs. 
Crummies, who took the tickets, and little Miss 
Crummies, whom the bills called "The Infant Phe- 
nomenon," and who was always said to be only ten 
years old. There was a slim young man with weak 
eyes who played the lover, and a fat man with a 
turned-up nose who played the funny countryman, 
and a shabby old man whose breath smelled of 
gin, who took the part of the good old banker 
with the gray side-whiskers. Then there was the 
lady who acted the role of the wicked adventuress, 
and all the others. 

Nicholas had to begin by writing a play which 
had parts for all of them, and it proved a great suc- 
cess. Smike, whom he drilled himself, took the 
part of a hungry boy, and he looked so starved, 
naturally, from his life with Squeers, that he was 

tremendously applauded. 
170 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY 

One of the other actors was so jealous at the 
play's success that he sent Nicholas a challenge to 
a duel, but Nicholas walked on to the stage before 
the whole company and knocked the actor down, 
and after that he had no trouble and was a great 
favorite. 

He might have stayed a long time at Mr. Crum- 
mles's theater, for he had earned quite a good deal 
of money, but one day he got a letter from Noggs, 
the clerk, telling him that all was not well with 
his mother and Kate. And without waiting an 
hour, Nicholas resigned from the company and, 
with Smike, set out again for London. 

Ill 

NICHOLAS COMES TO KATE'S RESCUE 

Noggs was right. Ralph Nickleby had never 
ceased to persecute Kate and her mother. In fact, 
when he had invited Kate to the dinner at which 
she had been insulted, it was for his own evil pur- 
pose. He had done so, hoping she might impress 
the foolish young Lord Verisopht, whose money 
he was hoping to get, and whom he wished to at- 
tract to his house. 

The young nobleman, as Ralph had intended, 
fell in love with Kate's sweet face at once, and 
found out from her uncle where she lived. 

She had lost her first position at the dressmaker's 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

(for Mr. Mantalini had thrown away his wife's 
money on race-horses until the sherifif had seized 
the business), and she was acting now as com- 
panion to a Mrs. Wititterly, a pale, languid lady 
who considered herself a very fashionable person 
indeed, and was always suffering from imaginary 
ailments. Lord Frederick and Sir Mulberry Hawk 
came often to the house, pretending to flatter Mrs. 
Wititterly, but really to see Kate, who heartily dis- 
liked them both. 

Mrs. Wititterly at last came to realize that the 
two men at whose attentions she had felt so flattered 
really cared only for her young companion, and, 
being vain and jealous, she'tormented and scolded 
Kate till the poor girl's life was a burden. 

At length, feeling that she could endure it no 
longer, Kate went to Ralph and begged him with 
tears to help her find another situation, but the 
money-lender refused to aid her. Noggs, the clerk, 
was sorry for her, but could do nothing except 
write to Nicholas, and this was the reason for the 
letter that had brought Nicholas post-haste back 
to London. 

Just what kind of persecution Kate had had to 
bear he learned by accident almost as soon as he 
got there. 

As he sat in a cofifee-house he suddenly heard 
the words, "little Kate Nickleby," spoken by a 
man behind him. He turned and listened. 

Four men whom he had never seen were drink- 
172 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY 

ing toasts to her, and Nicholas grew hot with 
rage at the coarse words they used. Sitting there, 
scarcely able to contain himself, he heard the whole 
story of his Uncle Ralph's plot, he heard his sister's 
sufferings derided, her goodness jeered at, her 
beauty made the subject of insolent jests. One of 
the four men, of course, was Lord Frederick Veri- 
sopht, and the coarsest and the most vulgar of 
them all, as may be guessed, was Sir Mulberry 
Hawk. 

White with anger, Nicholas confronted the party 
and, throwing down his card on the table, declared 
that the lady in question was his sister, and de- 
manded of Hawk his name. Hawk refused to an- 
swer. Nicholas called him a liar and a coward, and 
seating himself, swore the other should not leave 
his sight before he knew who he was. 

When Hawk attempted to enter his carriage 
Nicholas sprang on to the step. The other, in a fury, 
struck him with the whip, and Nicholas, wrench- 
ing it from him, with one blow laid open Hawk's 
cheek. The horse, frightened at the struggle, 
started ofif at a terrific speed, and Nicholas felt 
himself hurled to the ground. 

As he rose, he saw the runaway horse, whirling 
across the pavement, upset the carriage with a crash 
of breaking glass. Nicholas had no doubt that the 
man it held had been frightfully hurt if not killed. 
He felt faint from his own fall, and it was with 
difficulty that he reached Noggs's garret, whither, 
^7Z 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

before the adventure in the coffee-room, he had sent 
Smike to announce his coming. 

His first step now was to write a letter to Ralph, 
telling him he at last knew what a villain he 
was, and that he and his mother and sister cast him 
off for ever, with shame that they had ever asked 
his aid. The next day Nicholas took Kate from the 
Wititterly house and his mother from her poor 
lodging, and rented them rooms in another part of 
the city. Then he started out to find some employ- 
ment for himself. 

For a long time he was unsuccessful, but one day 
(and a very lucky day Nicholas thought it ever 
afterward) he met on the street a round-faced, 
jolly-looking old gentleman, with whom he fell in- 
to conversation, and before long, almost without 
knowing it, he had told him all his troubles. 

This old gentleman was named Cheeryble, and 
the firm to which he belonged was Cheeryble 
Brothers. He and his twin brother had come to 
London, barefoot, when they were boys, and though 
they had grown very rich, they had never forgotten 
what it was to be poor and wretched. The old 
gentleman asked Nicholas to come with him to his 
office and there they met the other Mr. Cheeryble. 

Nicholas could scarcely tell the two brothers 
apart, for they were like as two peas. They were 
precisely the same size, wore clothes just alike and 
laughed in the same key. Each had even lost ex- 
actly the same number of teeth, They were iQVed 
174 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY 

by everybody, for they went through life doing 
good wherever they could. They both liked Nich- 
olas at once, and the upshot was that they gave 
him a position in their counting-room and rented 
a pleasant cottage near by for his mother and 
Kate. 

So there Nicholas took up work and they wxre 
all happy and comfortable — very different from 
Ralph Nickleby, the money-lender, in his fine 
house, with only the memory of his own wicked- 
ness for company. 

IV 

WHAT HAPPENED TO EVERYBODY 

Ralph Nickleby's hatred had been growing day 
by day. As he could not harm Nicholas now, he 
tried to hurt him through Smike. He sent for 
-Squeers, and the latter, finding Smike alone one 
day on the street, seized him, put him in a coach 
and started to take him back to Dotheboys Hall. 
But luckily his victim escaped and got back to 
London. 

Then Ralph formed a wicked plot to get Smike 
surely into their hands. He hired a man to claim 
that he was the boy's father, who had first taken 
him to Squeers's school. Squeers, too, swore to 
this lying tale. But the Cheeryble brothers sus- 
pected the story, and when Ralph saw they were 
175 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

detemlned to help Nicholas protect Smike, he was 
afraid to go any further with the plan. So he 
smothered his rage for the time being, and mean- 
while a most important thing happened to Nich- 
olas — he fell in love! 

It came about in this way: There was a man 
named Bray, who had been arrested for debt and 
was allowed to live only in a certain street under 
the guardianship of the jailer, for this was the law 
in England then. He was slowly dying of heart- 
disease, and all the money he had to live on was 
what his only daughter, a lovely girl named Mad- 
eline, earned by painting and selling pictures. 

The Cheeryble brothers had learned of their 
poverty, (for it was hard for Madeline to find pur- 
chasers), and they sent Nicholas to buy some of 
the pictures. He was to pretend to be a dealer, so 
that Madeline would not supect it was done for 
charity. Nicholas went more than once and soon 
had fallen very much in love with Madeline Bray. 

He was not the only one who admired her, how- 
ever. There was an old man named Gride, almost 
as stingy as Ralph Nickleby, who had discovered 
by accident that a large sum of money really be- 
longed to Madeline, which she and her father 
knew nothing about, and he thought it would be 
a fine thing to marry her and thus get this fortune 
into his hands. Now, Ralph Nickleby was one of 
the men who was keeping Bray a prisoner, and so 
Gride went to him and asked him to help him 
176 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY 

marry Madeline. If Bray made his daughter 
marry the old miser he himself was to be set free. 
Ralph, for his share, was to get some of the money 
the old man Gride knew should be Madeline's. 

It was a pretty plan and it pleased Ralph, for 
he cared little what lives he ruined so long as he 
got money by it. So he agreed, and soon convinced 
Bray (who, ill as he was, was utterly selfish) that 
it would be a fine thing for Madeline to marry 
the hideous old Gride and so free her father. At 
length, in despair, because she thought it her duty 
to her heartless father, Madeline consented to do 
so. 

Nicholas might never have known of this till 
after the wedding, but luckily Noggs, the clerk, 
had overheard the old skinflint make the bargain 
with Ralph, and when one day Nicholas confessed 
that he was in love with Madeline, the good- 
hearted clerk told him all that he had found out. 

Nicholas was in great trouble, for he loved Mad- 
eline very dearly. He went to her and begged 
her not to marry Gride, but she thought it her 
duty. He went to Gride, too, but the hideous old 
miser only sneered at him. 

At last, in desperation, he told Kate, and the 
brother and sister went together to Bray's house. 
They reached it just as the wedding was about to 
begin. 

Ralph Nickleby, who was there, foamed vv^ith 
fury to find the nephew he so hated again stepping 
177 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

between him and his evil designs. He tried to bar 
them out, but Nicholas forced him back. 

They would doubtless have come to blows, but 
at that moment there came from another room the 
sound of a fall, and a scream from Madeline. The 
excitement had proved too much for her father. 
His heart had failed and he had fallen dead on the 
floor. Thus Providence interfered to bring the 
wicked scheme of the marriage to naught. 

Vainly did Gride bemoan the loss of the money 
he had hoped to gain, and vainly did Ralph Nickle- 
by, with curses, try to prevent. Nicholas thrust 
them both aside, lifted the unconscious Madeline 
as easily as if she had been a baby, placed her 
with Kate in a coach and, daring Ralph to follow; 
jumped up beside the coachman and bade him- 
drive away. 

He took her to his own home, where his mother 
and Kate cared for her tenderly till she had re^ 
covered from the shock and was her own lovely self, 
again. 

The penalty that he had so long deserved. was 
soon to overtake Ralph Nickleby. He lost much, 
of his wealth through a failure, and close on the 
heels of this misfortune came the news that the in- 
famous plot he had formed against Smike had been 
discovered and that Squeers, his accomplice, had 
been arrested. 

The most terrible blow came last. A man whom 
Ralph had long ago ruined and had caused to be 
178 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY 

transported for a crime, confessed that he had been 
the one who, many years before, had left Smike 
at Dotheboys Hall, and he confessed also that 
Smike was really Ralph Nickleby's own son by a 
secret marriage. Ralph had not known this, be- 
cause the man, in revenge, had falsely told him 
the child was dead. 

The knowledge that, in Smike, he had been per- 
secuting his own son was the crowning blow for 
cruel Ralph Nickleby. When he heard this he 
locked himself up alone in his great house and 
never was seen alive again. His body was found in 
the garret where he had hanged himself to a 
rafter. 

Poor Smike, however, did not live to sorrow 
over the villainy of his father. The exposure and 
hardships of his years at Squeers's school had 
broken his health. He had for long been gradu- 
ally growing weaker, and at last one day he died 
peacefully, with Nicholas's arms around him. 

Every one of whose villainy this story tells came 
to a bad end. Sir Mulberry Hawk quarreled with 
young Lord Verisopht and shot him dead in the 
duel that followed. For this he himself had to fly 
to a foreign country, where he finally died miser- 
ably in jail. Gride, the miser who had plotted to 
marry Madeline, met almost as terrible a fate as 
Ralph's. His house was broken into by burglars 
one night and he was found murdered in his bed. 

Squeers was declared guilty and transported for 

1/9 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

seven years. When the news reached Dotheboys 
Hall such a cheer arose as had never been heard 
there. It came on the weekly "treacle day," and the 
boys ducked young Wackford in the soup kettle 
and made Mrs. Squeers swallow a big dose of her 
own brimstone. Then, big and little, they all ran 
away, just as Nicholas and Smike had done. 

Kate married a nephew of the Cheeryble 
brothers, and Nicholas, of course, married Made- 
line, and in time became a partner in the firm. All 
of them lived near by, and their little children 
played together under the watchful care of old 
Noggs, the one-eyed clerk, who loved them all 
alike. 

The children laid flowers every day on poor 
Smike's grave, and often their eyes filled with tears 
as they spoke low and softly of the dead cousin 
they had never known. 



i8o 



DEALINGS WITH THE FIRM OF 

DOMBEY AND SON 

WHOLESALE, RETAIL, AND FOR EXPORTATION 

Published 1846-1848 

Scene: London, Brighton, and France 
Time: About 1830 to 1846 

CHARACTERS 

Mr. Dombey A London merchant 

Head of the firm of Dombey and Son 

"Little Paul" His son 

Florence His daughter 

Called by little Paul, 'Tloy" 

Edith Granger A widow 

Later, Mr. Dombey's wife 

Walter Gay A clerk for Dombey and Son 

Later, Florence's husband 

Solomon Gills His uncle 

A ship's instrument maker. Known as Old Sol 

Captain Cuttle A retired seaman 

Bosom friend of Old Sol's 

Carker Manager for Dombey and Son 

Mrs. Pipchin Proprietress of a children's boarding- 
house at Brighton 
Later, Mr. Dombey's housekeeper 
Doctor Blimber. . . .Proprietor of a boys' school at Brighton 

Major Bagstock A retired army officer 

Diogenes Doctor Blimber's dog 

Later a pet of Florence's 

181 



DOMBEY AND SON 



LITTLE PAUL 



In London there was once a business house 
known as Dombey and Son. It had borne that 
name for generations, though at the time this 
story begins Mr. Dombey, the head of the house, 
had no son. He was a merchant, hard, cold and 
selfish, who thought the world was made only for 
his firm to trade in. He had one little daughter, 
Florence, but never since her birth had he loved 
or petted her because of his disappointment that 
she was not a boy. 

When at last a son was born to him it wakened 
something at the bottom of his cold and heavy 
heart that he had never known before. He scarcely 
grieved for his wife, who died when the baby was 
born, but gave all his thought to the child. He 
named him Paul, and began at once to long for 
the time when he should become old enough to be 
a real member of the firm in which all his own 
interest centered — Dombey and Son. He hired the 
best nurse he could find, and, when he was not 
at his office, would sit and watch the baby Paul 
hour after hour, laying plans for his future. So 
183 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

selfishly was the father's soul wrapped up in this 
that he scarcely ever noticed poor, lonely little 
Florence, whose warm heart was starving for af- 
fection. 

Little Paul's nurse was very fond of him, and 
of his sister, too; but she had children of her own 
also, and one day, instead of walking up and down 
with Florence and the baby near the Dombey 
house, she took the children to another part of the 
city to visit her own home. 

This was a wrong thing to do, and resulted in a 
very unhappy adventure for Florence. On their 
way home a mad bull broke away from his keepers 
and charged through the crowded street. There 
was great screaming and confusion and people ran 
in every direction, Florence among the rest. She 
ran for a long way, and when she stopped, her 
nurse was nowhere to be seen. Terrified to find 
herself lost in the great city, she began to cry. 

The next thing she knew, an ugly old woman, 
with red-rimmed eyes and a mouth that mumbled 
all the while, grasped her by the wrist and dragged 
her through the shabby doorway of a dirty house 
into a back room heaped with rags. 

"I want that pretty frock," said she, "and that 
little bonnet and your petticoat. Come! Take them 
off!" 

Florence, dreadfully frightened, obeyed. The 
old woman took away her shoes, too, and made 
her put on some filthy ragged clothing from the 



DOMBEY AND SON 

heaps on the floor. Then she let her go, first mak- 
ing her promise she would not ask any one to show 
her the way home. 

The poor child could think of nothing else but 
to find her father's oflice at Dombey and Son's, and 
for two hours she walked, asking the way of every- 
body she met. She might not have found it at all, 
but at a wharf where she wandered, there hap- 
pened to be a young clerk of Dombey and Son's, 
and the minute he was pointed out to her she felt 
such trust in his bright and open face that she 
caught his hand and sobbed out all her story. 

This lad's name was Walter Gay. He lived with 
his uncle, honest old Solomon Gills, a maker of 
ship's instruments, who kept a little shop with the 
wooden figure of a midshipman set outside. Very 
few customers ever came into the shop, and, in- 
deed, hardly any one else, for Old Sol, as the neigh- 
bors called him, had only one intimate friend. 

This friend was a retired seaman named Captain 
Cuttle, who always dressed in blue, as if he were 
a bird and those were his feathers. He had a hook 
Instead of a hand attached to his right wrist, a shirt 
collar so large that it looked like a small sail, and 
wherever he went he carried in his left hand a thick 
stick that was covered all over (like his nose) with 
knobs. 

Captain Cuttle used to talk on land just as if he 
were at sea. He would say "Steady!" and "Belay, 
there!" and called Old Sol "Shipmate," as though 
185 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

the little shop, in which he spent his evenings, was 
a ship. He had a deep, rumbling voice, in which 
he would sing Lovely Peg, the only song he knew, 
and which he never but once got through to the 
last line. But in spite of his queer ways and talk, 
Captain Cuttle had the softest, kindest heart in 
the world. He thought old Solomon Gills the 
greatest man alive, and was as fond as possible of 
"Wal'r," as he called the nephew. And, indeed, 
Walter was a handsome boy, and as good as he was 
handsome. 

Walter soothed Florence's tears and took her, 
ragged clothes and all, straight home to Solomon 
Gills's shop, where his uncle gave her a warm sup- 
per, while Walter ran to the Dombey house with 
the news that she was found, and to bring back a 
dress for her to wear. 

So Florence's adventure turned out very well in 
one way, since through it she first met Walter Gay ; 
but it turned out badly in another way, for Mr. 
Dombey was angry that any one should have seen 
a daughter of his in such a plight, and, unjustly 
enough, treasured this anger against Walter. Flor- 
ence, however, never forgot her rescuer after that 
day, and as for Walter, he fell quite in love with 
her. 

Florence loved her little brother very dearly, but 

Paul, in the constant companionship of his father, 

grew up without boys or play. His face was old 

and wistful, and he had an old-fashioned way of 

i86 



DOMBEY AND SON 

sitting, brooding in his little arm-chair beside his 
father, looking into the fire. He used to ask 
strange, wise questions, and the only time he 
seemed childlike at all was when he was with Flor- 
ence. He was never strong and well, like her, but 
he grew tired easily, and used to say that his bones 
ached. 

Mr. Dombey at length grew anxious about Paul's 
health and sent him with Florence to Brighton, a 
town on the sea-coast, to the house of a Mrs. Pip- 
chin, a stooped old lady with a mottled face, a 
hooked nose and a hard gray eye. 

Mrs. Pipchin took little children to board, and 
her idea of "managing" them was to give them 
everything they didn't like and nothing they did 
like. She lived in a gloomy house, so windy that 
it always sounded to any one in it like a great shell 
which one had to hold to his ear whether he liked 
it or not. The children there stayed most of the 
time in a bare room they called "the dungeon," 
with a big ragged fireplace in it. They, had only 
bread and butter and rice to eat, while Mrs. Pip- 
chin had tea and mutton chops and buttered toast 
and other nice things. 

Little Paul's father did not know what a dreary 
place this was for a child, or doubtless he would 
not have sent him there. Mr. Dombey knew so lit- 
tle about children that it seemed as if he had never 
been a child himself, Paul was not happy — except 
when he was out on the beach with Florence, who 
187 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

used to draw him in a little carriage and sing to 
him and tell him stories. Once a week Mr. Dom- 
bey came to Brighton and then she and little Paul 
would go to his hotel to take tea with him. 

Paul seemed to find a curious fascination in Mrs. 
Pipchin. He would sit by the hour before the fire 
looking steadily at her, where she sat with her old 
black cat beside her, till his gaze quite disturbed 
her. He did not care to play with other children — 
only with Florence, whom he called "Floy." 
Often, as they sat together on the beach, he would 
ask her what it was the sea was always saying, and 
would rise up on his couch to listen to something 
he seemed to hear, far, far away. 

Walter Gay, meanwhile, in London, was work- 
ing away and thinking often of Florence. He was 
greatly worried about his Uncle Solomon, for the 
business of the old instrument maker was in a bad 
way, and Old Sol himself was melancholy. 

One day Walter came home from his work at 
Dombey and Son's to find that an officer had taken 
possession of the shop and all that was in it for 
debt. His old Uncle Sol was sobbing like a child, 
and not knowing what else to do, he went post- 
haste for Captain Cuttle. 

He found the captain with his hat on, peeling 
potatoes with a knife screwed into the wooden 
socket in his wrist instead of the hook. When he 
told him what had happened. Captain Cuttle 
jumped up, put all the money he had, his silver 

i88 



DOMBEY AND SON 

watch, some spoons and a pair of sugar-tongs into 
his pocket and went back at once with him to the 
shop. 

But the debt, he found, was far too big to be 
thus paid, and Captain Cuttle advised Walter to 
go to Mr. Dombey and ask him to help them, or 
else everything in the shop would have to be sold, 
and that would kill old Solomon Gills. 

It was Saturday, and Mr. Dombey had gone to 
see little Paul, so Walter and Captain Cuttle took 
the next coach for Brighton. 

They found him with the children at breakfast, 
and Walter, discouraged by his cold look, faltered 
lamely through his story, while Captain Cuttle laid 
on the table the money, the watch, the spoons and 
the sugar-tongs, offering them to help pay the debt. 
Mr. Dombey was astonished at his strange appear- 
ance and indignant at being annoyed by such an 
errand, so that Florence, seeing his mood and 
Walter's trouble, began to sob. Little Paul, how- 
ever, stood looking from Walter to his father so in- 
tently and wisely that the latter, telling him he was 
one day to be a part of Dombey and Son, asked him 
if he would like to loan Walter the money. 

Paul joyfully said yes, and Mr. Dombey, telling 
Walter that it was to be considered a loan from the 
boy, gave him a note which would at once release 
his uncle from his difficulty. So Walter and Cap- 
tain Cuttle went gladly back to London. 

Soon after this, when Paul was six years old, his 
189 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

father thought he should be studying, so he put him 
in a school next door to Mrs. Pipchin's. 

The master was Doctor Blimber, a portly gentle- 
man in knee-breeches, with a bald head and a 
double chin. He made all the boys there study 
much too hard ; even those only six years old had to 
learn Greek and history. Poor little Paul did the 
best he could, but such difficult tasks made him 
giddy and dull. It was only the Saturdays he en- 
joyed; these he spent with Florence on the sea- 
shore or in Mrs. Pipchin's bare room. 

Paul would have broken down sooner under 
Doctor Blimber's system but that Florence bought 
all the books he studied and studied them herself, 
so as to help him on Saturdays. People called 
him "old-fashioned," and that troubled him a great 
deal, but he tried to love even the old watch-dog 
at Doctor Blimber's, and before the holidays came 
everybody in the school liked him. 

But before the term ended little Paul fell sick. 
He seemed not to be ill of any particular disease, 
but only weak; so weak he had to sit propped 
up with pillows at the entertainment Doctor 
Blimber gave on the final evening. After that 
everything was hazy until he found himself, some- 
how, at home in bed, with Florence beside him. 

He lay there day after day, watching and dream- 
ing. He dreamed often of a swift, silent river that 
flowed on and on, and he wanted to stop it with his 

hands. 

190 



DOMBEY AND SON 

"Why will it never stop, Floy?" he would ask 
her. "It is bearing me away, I think." 

There were many shadowy figures that came and 

^went. One came often and sat long, but never 

spoke. One day he saw it was his father, and he 

called out to it: "Don't be so sorry for me, dear 

papa. Indeed, I am quite happy." 

Once he roused himself, and there were many 
about the bed: Florence, his father, his old nurse 
and Walter Gay, and he called each by name and 
waved his hand to them. 

Florence took him in her arms and he heard the 
swift river flowing. 

"How fast it runs, Floy! It is taking me with 
it. There is a shore before me now. Who is stand- 
ing on the bank?" 

He put his hands together behind her neck, as he 
had been used to do at his prayers. 

"Mama is like you, Floy," he said. "I know 
her by her face. The light about the head is shin- 
ing upon me as I go." 

So little Paul died. 

II 

HOW FLORENCE LOST HER FATHER 

It was a sad, sad house for many days after that, 

and Florence, in her loneliness, often thought her 

heart would break. Her father she scarcely ever 

saw, for he sat alone in his room. Every night she 

191 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

would steal down the dark hall to his door, and lay 
her head against the panels, hungering for a little 
love ; but he thought only of his dead son, and gave 
no sign of tenderness to her. 

One of Doctor Blimber's pupils begged for and 
brought her Diogenes, the old watch-dog which 
little Paul had petted at the school and this dog 
was all she had to love. She had not seen Walter 
Gay since the death of her brother, though he 
himself thought of her very often. 

Walter's prospects, thanks to an enemy he had 
made without knowing it, had changed since then. 
This enemy was Carker, the manager at Dombey 
and Son's. 

Carker was a thin man, with the whitest, most 
regular teeth, which he continually showed in an 
unpleasant smile. There was something cat-like 
about him ; the more he disliked a person the wider 
was his smile. Carker had a brother whom he 
hated, and Walter unconsciously earned his enmity 
by liking and being kind to this brother. 

Mr. Dombey was not fond of Walter either, the 
less so because Florence liked him, and disliking 
Florence, he disliked all for whom she cared. So, 
between Mr. Dombey and Carker, Walter was or- 
dered to go, on business for the firm, on a long 
voyage to the West Indies. 

Walter was not deceived. He knew he was not 
sent there for his own good, but in order not to 
worry his uncle he and Captain Cuttle pretended 
192 



DOMBEY AND SON 

that It was a splendid opportunity. So old Sol- 
omon Gills tried not to sorrow for his going. 

Florence heard of the voyage, and, the night be- 
fore Walter sailed, in she came to the little shop 
where Walter had brought her years before when 
she had been lost. She kissed Old Sol and called 
Walter her brother, and said she would never for- 
get him. 

And so Walter, v^hen next day he sailed away, 
waving his hand to his uncle and Captain Cuttle, 
went with even more of love in his heart for Flor- 
ence than he had had. 

After his going Florence was lonelier than 
before. She was all alone, save for the dog Di- 
ogenes and her books and music. Her father was 
much away, and in the evenings she could go into 
his room and nestle in his easy chair without fear 
of repulse. She kept the room in order and a fresh 
nosegay on the table, and never left it without leav- 
ing on his deserted desk a kiss and a tear. The pur- 
pose of her life, she determined, should be to try 
continually to let her father know how much she 
loved him. 

But months passed and she had no chance. Her 
father, in fact, seldom came near the house. He 
was away visiting in the country with a Major 
Bagstock, who had struck up an acquaintance with 
him because of Mr. Dombey's wealth. 

Bagstock (who had a habit of referring to him- 
self as "J. B." or "Joey B.," or almost anything but 
193 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

his full name) was as fat as a dancing bear, with a 
purple, apoplectic-looking face, and a laugh like 
a horse's cough. He was a glutton, and stuffed him- 
self so at meals that he did little but choke and 
wheeze through the latter half of them. He was a 
great flatterer, however, and he flattered so well 
that Mr. Dombey, blind from his own pride, 
thought him a very proper person indeed. And 
even though everybody laughed at the major, Mr. 
Dombey always found him most agreeable com- 
pany. 

There was an old lady at the town they visited 
who was poor, but very fond of fashion and rich 
people. She had no heart, and was silly enough, 
even though she was seventy years old, to wear 
rouge on her cheeks and dress like a girl of seven- 
teen. She had a widowed daughter, Edith 
Granger, a proud, lovely woman, who despised 
the life her mother led, but, in spite of this, was 
weak enough to be influenced by her. 

Major Bagstock introduced Mr. Dombey to the 
mother, and the latter soon made up her mind that 
her daughter should marry him. The major (who 
wanted Mr. Dombey to marry so he himself could 
profit by the dinners and entertainments that would 
follow) helped this afifair on all he could, and 
Edith, though at times she hated herself for the 
false part she was playing, agreed to it. 

To tell the truth, Mr. Dombey was so full of his 
own conceit that he never stopped to wonder if 
194 



DOMBEY AND SON 

Edith could really love him. She was beautiful 
and as cold and haughty as he was himself, and 
that was all he considered. So Major Bagstock 
and the old lady were soon chuckling and wheez- 
ing together with delight at the success of their 
plan, and before long Edith had promised to marry 
Florence's father. 

Poor Florence ! She had other griefs of her own 
by this time. Carker, of Dombey and Son, with 
the false smile and the white teeth, came several 
times to see her, asking if she had messages to send 
to her father — each time seeming purposely to 
wound her by recalling her father's dislike. She 
tried to like the smooth, oily manager, but there 
was something in his face she could not but dis- 
trust. 

To add to her trouble, the ship by which Walter 
Gay had sailed for the West Indies had not yet ar- 
rived there. It was long overdue, and in the ab- 
sence of news people began to fear it had been lost. 
She went to the little shop where the wooden mid- 
shipman stood, but found old Solomon Gills and 
Captain Cuttle in as great anxiety. 

Old Sol, indeed, was soon in such distress for 
fear Walter had been drowned, that he felt he 
could bear the suspense no longer. One day, soon 
after Florence's visit, he disappeared from Lon- 
don, leaving a letter for Captain Cuttle. 

This letter said he had gone to the West Indies 
to search for Walter, and asked the captain to care 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

for the little shop and keep it open, so that it could 
be a home for his nephew if he should ever appear. 
As for himself, Old Sol said if he did not return 
within a year he would be dead, and the captain 
should take the shop for his own. 

The disappearance of his old friend was a great 
blow to bluff Captain Cuttle, but, determined to do 
his part, he left his own lodgings and took up his 
place at the sign of the wooden midshipman to 
wait for news either of Walter or of old Solomon 
Gills. 

Florence knew nothing about this, for the cap- 
tain had not the heart to tell her. And, for her own 
part, she had much to think of in the approaching 
marriage of her father, in preparation for which 
the house was full of painters and paper-hangers, 
making it over for the bride. 

The first time Florence saw Edith was when one 
day she entered the parlor to find her father there 
with a strange, beautiful lady beside him. Mr. 
Dombey told her the lady would soon be her 
mama, and Edith, touched by the child's sweet 
face, bent down and kissed her so tenderly that 
Florence, so starved for affection, began at that mo- 
ment to love her, and to hope through Edith's love 
finally to win the love of her father. 

The wedding was a very grand one, and many 

people were at the church to see it. Even Captain 

Cuttle watched it from the gallery, and Carker's 

smile, as he looked on, showed more of his white 

196 



DOMBEY AND SON 

teeth than ever. The only thing that marred Flor- 
ence's happiness and hope on this day was the 
knowledge that Walter had not been heard from 
and the fear that he might never return. 

But in spite of her brave hope, after her father 
and Edith came back from their wedding journey 
and the life of parties and dinners began, Florence 
was soon disheartened. In the first flush of confi- 
dence she opened all her soul to Edith and begged 
her to teach her to win her father's liking. But 
Edith, knowing (as Florence did not know) how 
she had sold herself in this rich marriage and 
that she had no particle of love in her heart for her 
husband, told her sadly that she could not help her. 
This puzzled Florence greatly, for she loved Edith 
and knew that Edith loved her in return. 

In fact, it was Florence's trust and innocence 
that made Edith's conscience torture her the more. 
In Florence's pure presence she felt more and more 
unworthy, and the knowledge that her husband's 
hardness of heart was crushing the child's life and 
happiness made her hate him. 

Florence saw, before many months passed, that 
her father and Edith did not live in love and con- 
tentment. Indeed, how could they? She had mar- 
ried for ambition, he for pride, and neither loved 
nor would yield to the other. They had not the 
same friends or acquaintances. Hers were people 
of fashion; his were men of business. At the din- 
ners they gave, Mr. Dombey did not think Edith 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

treated his friends politely enough. He began to 
reprove her more and more often, and when she 
paid no heed he finally chid her openly and 
sternly in the presence of Carker (who brought 
his smile and gleaming teeth often to the house), 
knowing this action would most wound Edith's 
pride. And at length he took the management of 
the house out of her hands and hired as house- 
keeper Mrs. Pipchin, the old ogre of Brighton, at 
whose house Florence and little Paul had once 
lived. 

The worst of it all was that the more Mr. Dom- 
bey grew to dislike his wife the more he saw she 
loved Florence, and this made him detest the poor 
child more than ever. He imagined, in his cruel 
selfishness, that as Florence had come between him 
and the love of little Paul, so she was now coming 
between him and his wife. Finally he sent Carker 
to Edith, telling her she must no longer sit or talk 
with Florence — that they must see each other only 
in his presence. 

Florence's cup of bitterness was now almost full, 
for she knew nothing of this command, and, when 
she saw that Edith avoided her, sorrowed in secret. 
She was quite alone again now, save for Diogenes. 
Neither Major Bagstock, her father's flatterer, nor 
Carker, with his cat-like smile, could she see 
without a shudder, and all the while her heart was 
aching for her father's love. 

Mr. Dombey's insults were heaped more and 



DOMBEY AND SON 

more upon the defenseless Edith, till at last, made 
desperate by his pride and cruelty, she prepared a 
terrible revenge. On the morning of the anniver- 
sary of their w^edding-day Mr. Dombey was start- 
led by the news that Edith had run away with the 
false-hearted Carker! 

On that terrible morning, when the proud old 
man sat stunned in his room, Florence, yielding to 
her first impulse of grief and pity for him, ran to 
him to comfort him. But when she would have 
thrown her arms around his neck he lifted his arm 
and struck her so that she tottered. 

And as he did so he bade her follow Edith, since 
they had always been in league! 

In that blow Florence felt at last his cruelty, 
neglect and hatred trampling down any feeling of 
compassion he may once have had for her. She 
saw she had no longer a father she could love; and, 
wringing her hands, with her head bent to hide her 
agony of tears, ran out of the house that could no 
more be her home, into the heartless street. 

Ill 

HOW FLORENCE REACHED A REFUGE 

For a long time she ran without purpose, weep- 
ing, and not knowing where to go. But at last she 
thought of the day, so many years before, when she 
had been lost and when Walter Gay had found 
199 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

her. He had taken her then to the shop of his 
uncle, old Solomon Gills. There, she thought, 
she might at least find shelter. 

When she got to the sign of the wooden mid- 
shipman she had just enough strength to knock 
and push open the door, and then, at sight of 
Captain Cuttle's honest face, all her strength left 
her, and she fainted on the threshold. 

Captain Cuttle was cooking his breakfast. He 
knew her at once, even though she had grown to be 
a young lady. He lifted her and laid her on the 
sofa, calling her his "lady lass, "and bathed her face 
in cold water till she opened her eyes and knew 
him. She told him all her story, and he comforted 
her, and told her the shop should be her home just 
as long as she would stay in it. When she had 
eaten some toast and drunk some tea he made her 
lie down in the little upper room and sleep till she 
woke refreshed at evening. 

When she came down the stair she found Cap- 
tain Cuttle cooking dinner. He seemed to her 
then to have some great, joyful and mysterious 
secret. All through the evening and until she went 
to bed he would persist in drawing the conversa- 
tion around to Walter, which brought the tears 
again and again to her eyes. 

Then he would rumble out, "Wal'r's drown-ded, 
ain't he, pretty?" and nod his head and look very 
wise. 

Indeed, Captain Cuttle did have a wonderful 



DOMBEY AND SON 

secret. While Florence had been sleeping he had 
received a great piece of news: Walter, whom 
every one had believed drowned, had escaped 
death alone of all on the wrecked vessel. He had 
clung to a spar when the ship went down, and had 
been picked up by a vessel going in another direc- 
tion, so he had had no way of sending back news 
of his safety. The ship that had rescued him had 
at last brought him back to London, and it would 
not be long now before he would appear at the 
shop. 

You may guess Captain Cuttle's heart was full of 
thankfulness. But, not knowing much about such 
matters, he had an idea that the good news must be 
broken very gently to Florence. So at last he com- 
menced to tell her a story about a shipwreck in 
which only one was saved, and then she began to 
suspect the truth and her heart beat joyfully. Just 
as he finished the story the door opened. There was 
Walter himself, alive and well, and with a cry of 
joy she sprang to his arms. 

There was much to talk of that night in the little 
shop. With her face on Captain Cuttle's shoulder, 
Florence told him how and why she had left her 
home. And Walter, as he took her hand and kissed 
it, knew that she was a homeless, wandering fugi- 
tive, but richer to him thus than in all the wealth 
and pride of her former station, that had once 
made her seem so far ofif from him. Very soon 
after that he told Florence that he loved her — not 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

as a brother, but as something even dearer — and 
she promised to be his wife. 

On the evening before their wedding-day one 
more surprise came to them. They were all gath- 
ered in the shop when the outer door opened. Cap- 
tain Cuttle suddenly hit the table a terrific blow 
with his hook, shouted "Sol Gills, ahoy!" and tum- 
bled into the arms of a man in an old, weather- 
beaten coat. It was old Solomon Gills indeed, re- 
turned from his long search, and now, to see Walter 
there, weeping with joy. 

In another moment Walter and Florence were 
both in his arms, too, and everybody was laughing 
and crying and talking together. Old Sol had been 
half-way around the world in his search for Wal- 
ter, but had finally heard of his safety and started 
home, knowing he would go there also. It was a 
very joyous evening, that last evening of Florence's 
girl life. 

The next morning Walter and Florence paid an 
early visit to the grave of little Paul. She bade it a 
long good-by, for Walter had become an officer of 
a ship and she was to make the coming voyage with 
her husband. Then they went to the church, where 
they were married, and a few days later they sailed 
away to China (with Captain Cuttle's big watch 
and sugar-tongs and teaspoons, that he had once of- 
fered to Mr. Dombey, for wedding presents), con- 
tent in each other's love. 

Often, indeed, in this happy honeymoon Flor- 



DOMBEY AND SON 

ence remembered the father who had spurned her. 
But Walter's love had taken away the bitterness of 
that thought. She tried to love her father now 
rather as she lOved the memory of little Paul — not 
as a cruel, cold, living man, but as some one who 
had once lived and who might once have loved her. 

IV 

HOW FLORENCE FOUND HER FATHER AT LAST 

Mr. Dombey, alone in the silent house, had made 
no search for Florence. His pride bade him hide 
all traces of his grief and rage from the world. He 
had only one thought — to find where Carker had 
fled with his wife, to follow and to kill him. He 
hired detectives and at last discovered that Carker 
had gone to a certain city in France. And to that 
place he followed him. 

Now Edith, desperate as she had been, had not 
really been so wicked as Mr. Dombey supposed 
her. She had deserted him, but she had not run 
away with Carker. In all the trouble between her- 
self and Mr. Dombey, Carker (the smooth, smiling 
hypocrite!) had labored to make matters worse. 
He had lied to Mr. Dombey about his wife and 
taunted her with her position, and done everything 
in his power to make them hate each other more 
bitterly. At last, when he saw Edith could bear it 
no longer, he had begged her to run away with him, 
203 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

and when she refused, he had threatened her in 
many cowardly ways. But Edith hated him as 
much as she disliked her husband, and had not the 
least idea of running away with him. She had pre- 
tended to Carker that she would do so, and had led 
her husband and everybody else to think she had 
done so, but this was only to wound her husband's 
pride, and to punish him for all his tortures. Car- 
ker had followed her to France, but, once there, he 
had found the tables turned. Edith laughed at him 
and scorned him, and sent him from her, baffled 
and furious. 

Carker was thus caught in his own trap. He had 
lost his own position and reputation, and had 
gained nothing for all his evil plots. And besides 
this, he was a fugitive, and Mr. Dombey, the man 
he had wronged, was on his track. 

When he learned his enemy had followed him to 
France, Carker, raging, but cowardly, fled back to 
England; and back to England Edith's revengeful 
husband followed him day and night. The wicked 
manager knew no more peace or rest. He traveled 
into the country, seeking some lonely village in 
which to hide, but he could not shake off that grim 
pursuer. 

They met at last face to face one day on a rail- 
road platform when neither was expecting to see 
the other. 

In the surprise of the meeting, Carker's foot 
slipped — he stepped backward, directly in the path 
204 



DOMBEY AND SON 

of the engine that was roaring up the track. It 
caught him, and tossed him, and tore him limb 
from limb, and its iron wheels crushed and ground 
him to pieces. 

And that was the end of Carker, of the white 
teeth and false smile, and Mr. Dombey went back 
to London, still proud and alone, still cold and for- 
bidding. 

But his conscience at last had begun to cry out 
against him, and to deafen its voice he plunged 
more and more recklessly into business, spending 
money too lavishly, and taking risks of which, in 
other days, he would not have thought. 

The months went by and little by little the old 
firm of Dombey and Son became more entangled. 
Soon there were whispers that the business was 
in difficulty, but Mr. Dombey did not hear them. 
One morning the crash came. A bank closed and 
then suddenly the word went around that the old 
firm had failed. 

It was too true. The proud, hard-hearted mer- 
chant, who had driven his daughter from him, was 
ruined and a beggar. His rich friends, whom he 
had treated so haughtily, shrugged their shoulders 
and sneered. Even Major Bagstock at his club 
grew purple in the face with chuckling. 

The servants were all sent away, most of the 

furniture was sold at a public sale, and the old man, 

who had once been so proud and held his gray head 

so high, still sat on hour after hour in the echoing 

205 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

house, so empty now that even the rats would not 
live in it. What was he thinking? 

At last, in his agony, his sorrow, his remorse, his 
despair, he remembered Florence. He saw again 
her trembling lips, her lonely face longing for love 
— the terrible hopeless change that came over it 
when his own cruel arm struck her on that final 
day when she had stood before him. 

His pride at last had fallen. He knew now him- 
self what it was to be rejected and deserted. He 
thought how the daughter he had disliked, of them 
all, had never changed in her love for him. And 
by his own act he had lost her for ever. His son, 
his wife, his fortune, all had gone, and now at last 
in his wretchedness he knew that Florence would 
always have been true to him if he had only let 
her. 

Days passed, but he never left the house; every 
night he wandered through the empty rooms like 
a ghost. He grew to be a haggard, wasted likeness 
of himself. And one day the thought came to him 
that it would be better if he, too, were dead, even 
if it be by his own hand. This thought clung to 
him. He could not shake it off. 

One day he took a pistol from his dressing-table 
and sat hugging it to his breast. At length he rose 
and stood in front of a mirror with the weapon in 
his hand. 

But suddenly he heard a cry — a piercing, loving, 
rapturous cry — and he saw at his feet, clasping his 
206 



DOMBEY AND SON 

knees, with her face lifted to his, Florence, his 
long-lost daughter. 

"Papa, dearest papa!" she cried, "I have come 
back to you. I never can be happy more w^ithout 
you." 

He tottered to a chair, feeling her draw his arms 
around her neck. He felt her wet cheek laid 
against his own. He heard her soft voice telling 
him that now she herself had a little child — a baby 
boy born at sea — whom she and Walter had named 
Paul. 

"Dear papa," she said, "you will come home 
with me. We will teach our little child to love and 
honor you, and we will tell him when he can under- 
stand that you had a son of that name once, and 
that he died and that you were sorry; but that he is 
gone to Heaven, where we all hope to see him 
sometime. Kiss me, papa, as a promise that you 
will be reconciled. Never let us be parted any 
more!" 

His hard heart had been melting while she 
spoke. As she clung closer to him he kissed her, 
and she heard him mutter, "Oh, God forgive me, 
for I need it very much !" 

She drew him to his feet, and walking with a 
feeble gait he went with her. With her eyes upon 
his face and his arm about her, she led him to the 
coach waiting at the door and carried him away. 

Mr. Dombey was very ill for a long time. 
When he recovered he was no longer his old self, 
207 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

but a gentle, loving, white-haired old man. Walter 
did not go to sea again, but found a position of 
great trust and confidence in London, and in their 
home the old man felt growing stronger and 
stronger his new-found love for the daughter 
whom till now he had never really known. 

Florence never saw Edith again but once. Then 
the latter came back to bid her farewell for ever 
before she went to live in Italy. In these years 
Edith had seen her own pride and grieved for her 
fault. There were tears in her stern, dark eyes 
when Florence asked if she would send some mes- 
sage to Mr. Dombey. 

"Tell him," she answered, "that if in his own 
present he can find a reason to think less bitterly 
of me, I asked him to do so. I will try to forgive 
him his share of blame; let him try to forgive me 
mine." 

Time went happily by in the home of Walter 
and Florence. They often visited the little shop 
where stood the wooden midshipman, now in a new 
suit of paint. The sign above the door had become 
"Gills and Cuttle," for Old Sol and the Captain 
had gone into partnership, and the firm had grown 
rich through the successes of some of Solomon 
Gills's old investments which had finally turned 
out well. 

Walter was beloved by everybody who knew 
him, and in time refounded the old firm of Dom- 
bey and Son. 



DOMBEY AND SON 

Often in the summer, on the sea-beach, old Mr. 
Dombey might have been seen wandering with 
Florence's little children. The oldest was little 
Paul, and he thought of him sometimes almost 
as of the other little Paul who died. 

But most of all the old gentleman loved the little 
girl. He could not bear to see her sit apart or with 
a cloud on her face. He often stole away to look at 
her in her sleep, and was fondest and most loving 
to her when there was no one by. 

The child used to say then sometimes : 

"Dear grandpa, why do you cry when you kiss 
me?" 

But he would only answer, "Little Florence! 
Little Florence!" and smooth away the curls that 
shaded her earnest eyes. 



209 



THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF THE 
PICKWICK CLUB 

Published 1836-1837 

Scene: London, Neighboring Towns, Bath, and the 

Country 
Time: 1827 to 1831 

CHARACTERS 

Mr. Samuel Pickwick. . . . A gentleman of an inquiring mind 
Founder and chairman of "The Pickwick Club" 

Sam Weller His body-servant 

Mrs. Bardell His London landlady 

Tupman \ 

Snodgrass v Members of "The Pickwick Club" 

Winkle J 

Alfred Jingle Is strolling actor and adventurer 

Later, known as "Fitz-Marshall" 

Job Trotter His servant 

Mrs. Budger A rich widow 

Doctor Slammer An army surgeon 

Mrs. Budger's suitor 

Mr. Wardlc A country gentleman 

A friend of the Pickwickians 

Emily His daughter 

Miss Wardle His spinster sister 

Joe Mr. Wardle's footman 

Known as "The Fat Boy" 
211 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Tony Weller A stage driver. Sam's father 

Mrs. Weller His second wife 

Mrs. Leo Hunter A lady with a fondness for know- 
ing celebrated persons 

Mr. Peter Magnus One of Mr. Pickwick's traveling 

acquaintances 

Nupkins Mayor of Ipswich 

Mrs. Nupkins His wife 

Miss Nupkins His daughter 

B^"^^^^^ I Medical students 

Bob Sawyer j 

Arabella Allen Ben's pretty sister 

Sergeant Buzfuz Mrs. Bardell's lawyer 

Mr. Dowler One of Mr. Pickwick's acquaint- 
ances at Bath 

Mrs. Dowler His wife 

Mr. Angelo Cyrus Bantam A society leader at Bath 

Mary Nupkins's pretty housemaid 



919 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 



THE PICKWICKIANS BEGIN THEIR ADVENTURES 
THEY MEET MR. ALFRED JINGLE, AND WIN- 
KLE IS INVOLVED IN A DUEL 

Once upon a time, in London, there was a club 
called "The Pickwick Club." Mr. Samuel Pick- 
wick, its founder and chairman, was a benevolent, 
simple-hearted old gentleman of some wealth, with 
a taste for science. He delighted to invent the most 
profound theories, to explain the most ordinary 
happenings and to write long papers to be read be- 
fore the Club. He had a large bald head, and eyes 
that twinkled, behind round spectacles, and he 
made a speech with one hand under his coat tails 
and the other waving in the air. 

His fellow members looked upon Mr. Pickwick 
as a very great man, and when he proposed that he 
and three others form a "Corresponding Society," 
which should travel about and forward to the club 
accounts of their adventures, the idea was at once 
adopted. 

The three that Mr. Pickwick chose were named 
Tupman, Snodgrass and Winkle. Tupman was 
middle-aged with a double chin and was so fat 
213 



.TALES FROM DICKENS 

that for years he had not seen the watch chain 
that crossed his silk waistcoat. But he had a youth- 
ful, romantic disposition, and a great liking for the 
fair sex. Snodgrass, who had no parents, was a 
ward of Mr. Pickwick's and imagined himself a 
poet. Winkle was a young man whose father had 
sent him to London to learn life; he wore a green 
shooting-coat and his great ambition was to be con- 
sidered a sportsman, though at heart he was afraid 
of either a horse or a gun. With these three com- 
panions Mr. Pickwick prepared to set out in 
search of adventures. 

Next morning as he drove in a cab to the inn 
where all were to take the coach, Mr. Pickwick 
began to chat with the driver. The cabman amused 
himself by telling the most impossible things, all 
of which Mr. Pickwick believed. When he 
said his horse was forty-two years old and that 
he often kept him out three weeks at a time without 
resting, down it went in Mr. Pickwick's note-book 
as a wonderful instance of the endurance of horses. 
Unfortunately, however, the driver thought Mr. 
Pickwick was putting down the number of the cab 
so as to complain of him, and as they arrived just 
then at the inn, he jumped from his seat with the 
intention of fighting his dismayed passenger. He 
knocked off Mr. Pickwick's spectacles and, danc- 
ing back and forth as the other's three comrades 
rushed to the rescue, planted a blow in Mr. Snod- 
grass's eye, another in Tupman's waistcoat and 
214 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

ended by knocking all the breath out of Winkle's 
body. 

From this dilemma they were rescued by a tall, 
thin, long-haired, young man in a faded green coat, 
worn black trousers and patched shoes, who seized 
Mr. Pickwick and lugged him into the inn by main 
force, talking with a jaunty independent manner 
and in rapid and broken sentences : 

"This way, sir — where's your friends? — all a 
mistake — never mind — here, waiter — brandy and 
water — raw beefsteak for the gentleman's eye — eh, 
—ha-ha!" 

The seedy-looking stranger, whose name was Al- 
fred Jingle, was a passenger on the same coach that 
day and entertained the Pickwickians with marvel- 
ous stories of his life in Spain. None of these was 
true, to be sure, but they were all entered in Mr. 
Pickwick's note-book. In gratitude, that night the 
latter invited Jingle to dinner at the town inn where 
they stopped. 

The dinner was long, and almost before it was 
over not only Mr. Pickwick, but Snodgrass and 
Winkle also were asleep. Tupman, however, was 
more wakeful ; a ball, the waiter had told him, was 
to be held that night on the upper floor and he 
longed to attend it. Jingle readily agreed, espe- 
cially when Tupman said he could borrow for him 
a blue dress suit, the property of the sleeping Win- 
kle. 

They were soon dressed and at the ball. Jingle's 
215 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

jaunty air gained him a number of introductions. 
Before long he was dancing with a little old widow 
named Mrs. Budger, who was very rich, and to 
whom he at once began to make love. There was an 
army surgeon present named Slammer — a short 
fat man with a ring of upright black hair around 
his head, and a bald plain on top of it — who had 
been courting the rich widow himself. Doctor 
Slammer was old; Jingle was young, and the lady 
felt flattered. Every moment the doctor grew an- 
grier and at last tried to pick a quarrel with the 
wearer of the blue dress suit, at which Jingle only 
laughed. The ball over, Tupman and Jingle went 
down stairs. Winkle's clothes were returned to 
their place, and Jingle, promising to join the party 
at dinner next day, took his departure. 

The Pickwickians were hardly awake next morn- 
ing when an army officer came to the inn inquiring 
which gentleman of their number owned a blue 
dress suit with gilt buttons. When told that Mr. 
Winkle had such a costume he demanded to see 
him, and at once, in the name of his friend Doctor 
Slammer, challenged him to fight a duel that night 
at sunset. 

Poor Winkle almost fainted with surprise. 
When the stranger explained that the wearer of the 
blue suit had insulted Doctor Slammer, Winkle 
concluded that he must have drunk too much wine 
at dinner, changed his clothes, gone somewhere, 
and insulted somebody — of all of which he had no 
216 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

recollection. He saw no way, therefore, but to ac- 
cept the bloodthirsty challenge, hoping that some- 
thing would happen to prevent the duel. 

Winkle was dreadfully afraid, for he had never 
fired a pistol in his life. He chose Snodgrass for his 
second, hoping the latter would tell Mr. Pickwick; 
but Snodgrass, he soon found to his dismay, had 
no idea of doing so. The day wore heavily away, 
and Winkle could think of no escape. At sun- 
set they walked to the appointed spot — a lonely 
field— and at last Winkle found himself, pistol in 
hand, opposite another man armed likewise, and 
waiting the signal to shoot. 

At that moment Doctor Slammer saw that the 
man he faced was not the one who had insulted 
him at the ball. Explanations were soon made and 
the whole party walked back together to the inn, 
where Winkle introduced his new friends to the 
Pickwickians. Jingle, however, was with the lat- 
ter, and Doctor Slammer at once recognized him 
as the wearer of the blue dress suit. The doctor 
flew into a rage and only the statement of his fellow 
officer, that Jingle was not a gentleman, but a strol- 
ling actor far beneath the doctor's dignity, pre- 
vented an encounter. As it was. Slammer stumped 
ofif in anger, leaving the Pickwickians to enjoy the 
evening in their own way. 



217 



TALES FROM DICKENS 



II 



TUPMAN HAS A LOVE-AFFAIR WITH A SPINSTER, AND 

THE PICKWICKIANS FIND OUT THE REAL 

CHARACTER OF JINGLE 

Next day a military drill was held just outside 
the town and the Pickwickians went to see it. In 
the confusion of running officers and prancing 
horses they became separated from one another. 
Mr. Pickwick, Snodgrass and Winkle found them- 
selves between two lines of troops, in danger of be- 
ing run down. At this moment they saw Tupman 
standing in an open carriage near by and, hurrying 
to it, were hoisted in. 

The carriage belonged to a short, stout old gen- 
tleman named Wardle who had attended some of 
the club's meetings in London and knew Mr. Pick- 
wick by sight. He lived at a place near by called 
Dingley Dell, from which he had driven to see 
the drill, with his old maid sister and his own two 
pretty daughters. Fastened behind was a big ham- 
per of lunch and on the box was a fat boy named 
Joe, whom Mr. Wardle kept as a curiosity because 
he did nothing but eat and sleep. Joe went on er- 
rands fast asleep and snored as he waited on the 
table. He had slept all through the roaring of the 
cannon and the old gentleman had to pinch him 
awake to serve the luncheon. 

They had a merry time that day, Tupman be- 
218 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

ing deeply smitten with the charms of the elderly 
Miss Wardle, and Snodgrass no less in love 
with Emily, one of the pretty daughters. When the 
review was over the old gentleman invited them all 
to visit Dingley Dell next day. 

Early in the morning they set out, Mr. Pick- 
wick driving Tupman and Snodgrass in a chaise, 
while Winkle rode on horseback to uphold his 
reputation as a sportsman. Mr. Pickwick was dis- 
trustful of the horse he hired, but the hostler as- 
sured him that even a wagon-load of monkeys with 
their tails burnt off would not make him shy. 

Winkle had never ridden a horse before, but he 
was ashamed to admit it. 

For a while all went well ; then the luckless Win- 
kle dropped his whip and when he dismounted the 
horse would not let him mount again. Mr. Pick- 
wick got out of the chaise to help, and at this the 
animal jerked the bridle away and trotted home. 
Hearing the clatter the other horse bolted, too. 
Snodgrass and Tupman jumped for their lives and 
the chaise was smashed to pieces against a wooden 
bridge. With difficulty the horse was freed from 
the ruins and, leading him, the four friends walked 
the seven miles to Dingley Dell, where they found 
Mr. Wardle and the fat boy, the latter fast asleep 
as usual, posted in the lane to meet them. 

Brushes, a needle and thread and some cherry- 
brandy soon cured their rents and bruises and they 
forgot their misfortunes in an evening of pleasure. 
219 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Mr. Wardle's mother was a deaf old lady with an 
ear-trumpet, who loved to play whist. When she 
disliked a person she would pretend she could not 
hear a word he said, but Mr. Pickwick's jollity and 
compliments made her forget even to use her ear- 
trumpet. Tupman flirted with the spinster aunt 
and Snodgrass whispered poetry into Emily's ear 
to his heart's content. 

Next morning Mr. Wardle took Winkle rook- 
shooting. The pair set out with their guns, pre- 
ceded by the fat boy and followed by Mr. Pick- 
wick, Snodgrass and the corpulent Tupman. 
Winkle, who disliked to admit his ignorance of 
guns, showed it in a painful way. His first shot 
missed the birds, and lodged itself in the arm of 
Tupman, who fell to the ground. The con- 
fusion that followed can not be described. They 
bound up his wounds and supported him to the 
house, where the ladies waited at the garden gate, 
Mr. Wardle calling out to them not to be fright- 
ened. 

The warning, however, had no effect on the 
spinster aunt. At the sight of her Tupman wound- 
ed, she began to scream. Old Mr. Wardle told her 
not to be a fool, but Tupman was affected almost 
to tears and spoke her name with such romantic 
tenderness that the poor foolish lady felt quite a 
flutter at her heart. 

A surgeon found the wound a slight one, and as 
a cricket match was to be played that day, the host 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

left Tupman in the care of the ladies and carried 
ofif the others to the game. 

When they reached the field, the first words that 
fell on Mr. Pickwick's ear made him start: 

"This way — capital fun — glorious day — make 
yourself at home — glad to see you — very." It was 
Jingle, still clad in his faded green coat. He had 
fallen in with the visiting players, and by telling 
wonderful tales of the games he had played in the 
West Indies, soon convinced them he was a great 
cricket player. Seeing him greet Mr. Pickwick, 
Mr. Wardle, thinking him a friend of his guest, 
procured him an invitation to the dinner that fol- 
lowed the match. There Jingle made good use of 
his time in eating and drinking, and at midnight 
was heard leading with great effect the chorus : 

"We won't go home till morning." 

Meanwhile, the romantic Tupman at Dingley 
Dell had been free to woo the middle-aged spin- 
ster. This he did with such success that when even- 
ing came, he and she sat together in a vine-covered 
arbor in the garden like a pair of carefully folded 
kid gloves — bound up in each other. He had just 
printed a kiss on her lips when both looked up to 
see the fat boy, perfectly motionless, staring into 
the arbor. 

"Supper's ready," said the fat boy, and his look 
was so blank that they both concluded he must have 
been asleep and had seen nothing. 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

It was long past midnight when a tremendous 
noise told that the absent ones had returned. All 
rushed to the kitchen, where Jingle's voice was 
heard crying: "Cricket dinner — glorious party — 
capital songs — very good — wine ma'am — wine!" 
Mr. Pickwick, Snodgrass and Winkle went to bed, 
but the talkative Jingle remained with the ladies 
and before they retired had made Tupman almost 
mad with jealousy by his attentions to the spinster 
aunt, who showed herself greatly pleased with his 
politeness. 

Now the fat boy, for once in his life, had not 
been asleep when he had announced supper that 
evening. He had seen Tupman's love-making, and 
took the first occasion to tell the deaf old lady, as 
she sat in the garden arbor next morning. He was 
obliged to shout it in her ear, and thus the whole 
story was overheard by Jingle, who happened to 
be near. 

The deceitful Jingle saw In this a chance to bene- 
fit himself. The spinster, he thought, had money; 
what could he better do than turn her against Tup- 
man, and marry her himself? With this plan he 
went to Tupman, recited what the fat boy had told, 
and advised him, for a time, in order to throw off 
the suspicions of the old lady and of Mr. Wardle, 
to pay. special attention to one of the younger 
daughters and to pretend to care nothing for the 
spinster. He told Tupman that the latter herself 
had made this plan and wished him to carry it out 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

for her sake. Tupman, thinking it the wish of his 
lady-love, did this with such success that the old 
lady concluded the fat boy must have been dream- 
ing. 

The spinster, however, thought Tupman false, 
and Jingle used the next few days to make such 
violent love to her that the silly creature believed 
him, forgot Tupman, and agreed to run away with 
the deceiver to London. 

There was great excitement when their absence 
was discovered, and the wrathful Mr. Wardle and 
Mr. Pickwick pursued them at once in a four-horse 
chaise. They rode all night and, reaching London, 
at once began to inquire at various inns to find a 
trace of the runaway pair. 

They came at length to one called The White 
Hart, in whose courtyard a round-faced man- 
servant was cleaning boots. This servant, whose 
name was Sam Weller, wore a coat with blue glass 
buttons, a bright red handkerchief tied around his 
neck and an old white hat stuck on the side of his 
head. He spoke with a quaint country accent, but 
he was a witty fellow, with a clever answer for 
every one. 

"Werry well, I'm agreeable," he said when Mr. 
Pickwick gave him a gold piece. "What the devil 
do you want with me, as the man said when he see 
the ghost?" 

With Sam Weller's aid, they soon found that 
Jingle and the spinster were there, and entered the 
223 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

room in which the couple sat at the very moment 
Jingle was showing the marriage license which he 
had just brought. The spinster at once went into 
violent hysterics, and Jingle, seeing the game was 
up, accepted the sum of money which Mr. Wardle 
offered him to take himself off. 

There were deep lamentations when the confid- 
ing spinster found herself deserted by the faithless 
Jingle, and slowly and sadly Mr. Pickwick and 
Mr. Wardle bore her back to Dingley Dell. 

The heartbroken Tupman had already left there, 
and with feelings of gloom Mr. Pickwick, with 
Snodgrass and Winkle, also departed. 



Ill 



MR. PICKWICK HAS AN INTERESTING SCENE WITH 
MRS. BARBELL, HIS HOUSEKEEPER. FURTHER 
PURSUIT OF JINGLE LEADS TO AN AD- 
VENTURE AT A YOUNG LADIES' 
BOARDING-SCHOOL 

Mr. Pickwick lived in lodgings, let for a single 
gentleman, in the house of a Mrs. Bardell, a widow 
with one little boy. For a long time she had se- 
cretly adored her benevolent lodger, as some one 
far above her own humble station. 

Mr. Pickwick had not forgotten Sam Weller, 
the servant who had aided in the pursuit of Jingle, 
and on returning to London he wrote, asking Sam 
224 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

to come to see him, intending to offer him a posi- 
tion as body-servant. Sam came promptly and Mr. 
Pickwick then proceeded to tell his landlady of his 
plan — a more or less delicate matter, since it would 
cause some change in her household affairs. 

"Mrs. Bardell," said he, "do you think it a much 
greater expense to keep two people than one?" 

"La, Mr. Pickwick!" answered Mrs. Bardell, 
fancying she saw matrimony in his eye. "That de- 
pends on whether it's a saving person." 

"Very true," said Mr. Pickwick, "but the person 
I have in my eye" — here he looked at Mrs. Bar- 
dell — "has this quality. And to tell you the truth, 
I have made up my mind." 

Mrs. Bardell blushed to her cap border. Her 
lodger was going to propose! "Oh, Mr. Pick- 
wick!" she said, "you're very kind, sir. I'm sure I 
ought to be a very happy woman." 

"It'll save you a deal of trouble," Mr. Pickwick 
went on, "and when I'm in town you'll always have 
somebody to sit with you." 

"Oh, you dear — " said Mrs. Bardell. 

Mr. Pickwick started. 

"Oh, you kind, good, playful dear!" said Mrs. 
Bardell, and flung herself on his neck with a cata- 
ract of tears. 

The astonished Mr. Pickwick struggled vio- 
lently, pleading and reproving, but in vain. Mrs. 
Bardell clung the tighter, and exclaiming franti- 
cally that she would never leave him, fainted away 
225 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

in his arms. At the same moment Tupman, Winkle 
and Snodgrass entered the room. Mr. Pickwick 
tried to explain, but in their faces he read that they 
suspected him of making love to the widow. 

This reflection made him miserable and ill at 
ease. He lost no time in taking Sam Weller into 
his service, on condition that he travel with the 
Pickwickians in their further search for adven- 
tures, and at once proposed to his three comrades 
another journey. 

Next day, therefore, found them on the road for 
Eatanswill, a town near London which was then on 
the eve of a political election. This was a very 
exciting struggle and interested them greatly. 

Here, one morning soon after their arrival, a 
fancy dress breakfast was given by Mrs. Leo 
Hunter, a lady who had once written an Ode to an 
Expiring Frog and who made a great point of 
knowing everybody who was at all celebrated for 
anything. All of the Pickwickians attended the 
breakfast. Mr. Pickwick's dignity was too great 
for him to don a fancy costume, but the rest wore 
them, Tupman going as a bandit in a green velvet 
coat with a two-inch tail. 

Mrs. Leo Hunter herself, in the character of 
Minerva, insisted on presenting Mr. Pickwick to 
all the guests. 

In the midst of the gaiety Mrs. Leo Hunter's 
husband called out: "My dear, here comes Mr. 
Fitz-Marshall," and, to his astonishment, Mr. 
226 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

Pickwick heard a well-known voice exclaiming: 
"Coming, my dear ma'am — crowds of people — 
full room — hard work — very!" 

It was Jingle. Mr. Pickwick indignantly faced 
him, but the impostor, at the first glance turned 
and fled. Mr. Pickwick, after hurriedly question- 
ing his hostess, who told him Mr. Fitz-Marshall 
lived at an inn in a village not far away, left the 
entertainment instantly, bent on pursuit. With 
Sam Weller, his faithful servant, he took the next 
stage-coach and nightfall found him lodged in a 
room in that very inn, while Sam set himself to 
discover Jingle's whereabouts. 

With the money Mr. Wardle had paid him 
Jingle had set up as a gentleman: he even had a 
servant — a sneaking fellow with a sallow, solemn 
face and lank hair, named Job Trotter, who could 
burst into tears whenever it suited his purpose and 
whose favorite occupation seemed to be reading a 
hymn-book. Sam Weller soon picked an acquaint- 
ance with Job, and it was not long before the latter 
confided to him that Jingle his master (whom he 
pretended to think very wicked) had plotted to 
run away that same night, with a beautiful young 
lady from a boarding-school just outside the vil- 
lage, at which he was a frequent caller. Job said 
his master was such a villain that he had made up 
his mind to betray him. 

Sam took Job to Mr. Pickwick, to whom he re- 
peated his tale, adding that he and his master were 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

to be let into the school building at ten o'clock, and 
that if Mr. Pickwick would climb over the garden 
wall and tap on the kitchen door a little before 
midnight, he, Job, would let him in to catch Jingle 
in the very act of eloping. 

This seemed to Mr. Pickwick a good plan, and 
he proceeded to act upon it. In good time that 
night Sam hoisted him over the high garden-wall 
of the school, after which he returned to the inn, 
while his master stealthily approached the build- 
ing. 

It was very still. When the church chimes struck 
half-past eleven Mr. Pickwick tapped on the door. 
Instead of being opened by Job, however, a ser- 
vant-girl appeared with a candle. Mr. Pickwick 
had presence of mind enough to hide behind the 
door as she opened it. She concluded the noise 
must have been the cat. 

Mr. Pickwick did not know what was best to 
do. To make matters worse, a thunderstorm broke 
and he had no refuge from the rain. He was 
thoroughly drenched before he dared repeat the 
signal. 

This time windows were thrown open and 
frightened voices demanded "Who's there?" Mr. 
Pickwick was in a dreadful situation. He could 
not retreat, and when the door was timidly opened 
and some one screamed "A man!" there was a 
dreadful chorus of shrieks from the lady princi- 
pal, three teachers, five female servants and thirty 
228 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

young lady boarders, all half-dressed and in a 
forest of curl papers. 

Mr. Pickwick was desperate. He protested that 
he was no robber — that he would even consent to 
be tied or locked up, only to convince them. A 
closet stood in the hall ; as a pledge of good faith he 
stepped inside it. Its door was quickly locked and 
only then the trembling principal consented to lis- 
ten to him. By the time he had told his story, he 
knew that he had been cruelly hoaxed by Jingle 
and Job Trotter. She knew not even the name of 
Mr. Fitz-Marshall. For her own part she was 
certain Mr. Pickwick was crazy, and he had to 
stay in the stuffy closet over an hour while at his 
request some one was sent to find Sam Weller. 

The latter came at length, bringing with him old 
Mr. Wardle, who, as it happened, unknown to Mr. 
Pickwick, was stopping at the inn. Explanations 
were made and Mr. Pickwick, choking with wrath, 
returned to the inn to find Jingle and his servant 
gone, and to be, himself, for some time thereafter, 
a prey to rheumatism. 

A serious matter at this juncture called Mr. 
Pickwick home. This was a legal summons notify- 
ing him that Mrs. Bardell, his landlady, had 
brought a suit for damages against him, claiming 
he had promised to marry her and had then run 
away. A firm of tricky lawyers had persuaded 
her to this in the hope of getting some money out 
of it themselves. Mr. Pickwick was very angry, 
229 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

but there was nothing for it but to hire a lawyer, 
so he and Sam Weller set out without delay. 



IV 



AND THE PUR- 
SUIT OF JINGLE IS CONTINUED. MR. PICK- 
WICK MAKES A STRANGE CALL ON A 
MIDDLE-AGED LADY IN YELLOW 
CURL PAPERS 

Having arranged this matter in London, master 
and servant sat one evening in a public house when 
Sam recognized in a stout man with his face buried 
in a quart pot, his own father, old Tony Weller, the 
stage-coach driver, and with great affection intro- 
duced him to Mr. Pickwick. 

"How's mother-in-law?" asked Sam. 

The elder Mr. Weller shook his head as he re- 
plied, "I've done it once too often, Samivel. Take 
example by your father, my boy, and be very care- 
ful o' widders, 'specially if they've kept a public 
house." 

Mrs. Weller the second, indeed, was the proprie- 
tress of a public house. To a shrill voice and a 
complaining disposition she added a dismal sort of 
piety which showed itself in much going to meet- 
ing, in considering her husband a lost and sinful 
wretch and in the entertaining of a prim-faced, 
red-nosed, rusty old hypocrite of a preacher who 
230 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

sat by her fireside every evening consuming quanti- 
ties of toast and pineapple rum, and groaning at 
the depravity of her husband, who declined to give 
money to the preacher's society for sending flan- 
nel waistcoats and colored handkerchiefs to the in- 
fant negroes of the West Indies. As may be im- 
agined, Sam's father led a sorry life at home. 

The meeting with the elder Weller proved a for- 
tunate one, for when Sam told of their experiences 
with Jingle and Job Trotter, his father declared 
that he himself had driven the pair to the town of 
Ipswich, where they were then living. Nothing 
would satisfy Mr. Pickwick, when he heard this, 
but pursuit, and he and Sam set out next morning 
by coach, Mr. Pickwick having written to the other 
Pickwickians to follow him. 

On the coach was a red-haired man with an in- 
quisitive nose and blue spectacles, whose name was 
Mr. Peter Magnus, and with whom (since they 
stopped at the same inn) Mr. Pickwick dined on 
his arrival. Mr. Magnus, before they parted for 
the night, grew confidential and informed him that 
he had come there to propose to a lady who was in 
the inn at that very moment. 

For some time after he retired, Mr. Pickwick 
sat in his bedroom thinking. At length he rose to 
undress, when he remembered he had left his watch 
down stairs, and taking a candle he went to get it. 
He found it easily, but to retrace his steps proved 
more difficult. A dozen doors he thought his own, 
231 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

and a dozen times he turned a door-knob only to 
hear a gruff voice within. At last he found what he 
thought was his own room, the door ajar. The 
wind had blown out his candle, but the fire was 
bright, and Mr. Pickwick, as he retired behind the 
bed curtains to undress, smiled till he almost 
cracked his nightcap strings as he thought of his 
wanderings. 

Suddenly the smile faded — some one had en- 
tered the room and locked the door. "Robbers!" 
thought Mr. Pickwick. He peered out between 
the curtains and almost fainted with horror. 
Standing before the mirror was a middle-aged 
lady in yellow curl papers, brushing her back- 
hair. 

"Bless my soul!" thought Mr. Pickwick. "I 
must be in the wrong room. This is fearful!" 

He waited a while, then coughed, first gently, 
then more loudly. 

"Gracious Heaven!" said the middle-aged lady. 
"What's that?" 

"It's — it's only a gentleman, ma'am," said Mr. 
Pickwick. 

"A strange man!" exclaimed the lady with a ter- 
rific scream. 

Mr. Pickwick put out his head in desperation. 

"Wretch!" she said, covering her face with her 
hands. "What do you want here?" 

"Nothing, ma'am — nothing whatever, ma'am,'^ 
said Mr. Pickwick earnestly. "I am almost ready 
232 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

to sink, ma'am, beneath the confusion of address- 
ing a lady in my nightcap (here the lady snatched 
ofif hers) but I can't get it ofif, ma'am! (here Mr. 
Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug) . It is evident 
to me now that I have mistaken this bedroom for 
my own." 

"If this be true," said the lady sobbing violently, 
"you will leave it instantly." 

"Certainly, ma'am," answered Mr. Pickwick ap- 
pearing, "I — I — am very sorry, ma'am." 

The lady pointed to the door. With his hat on 
over his nightcap, his shoes in his hand and his 
coat over his arm, Mr. Pickwick opened the door, 
dropping both shoes with a crash. "I trust, 
ma'am," he resumed, bowing very low, "that my 
unblemished character — " but before he could fin- 
ish the sentence the lady had thrust him into the 
hall and bolted the door. 

Luckily Mr. Pickwick met, coming along the 
corridor, the faithful Sam Weller who took him 
safely to his room. 



THE PICKWICKIANS FIND THEMSELVES IN THE 

GRASP OF THE LAW. THE FINAL EXPOSURE 

OF JINGLE, AND A CHRISTMAS 

MERRYMAKING 

Mr. Pickwick was still indoors next morning, 
when Sam, strolling through the town, met, coming 
233 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

from a certain garden-gate, the wily Job Trotter. 
Job tried at first to disguise himself by making a 
horrible face, but Sam was not to be deceived, and 
finding this trick vain, the other burst into tears of 
joy to see him. 

Job told Sam that his master, Jingle, had bribed 
the mistress of the boarding-school to deny to Mr. 
Pickwick that she knew him, and had then cruelly 
deserted the beautiful young lady for a richer one. 
But this time Sam was too wise to believe anything 
Job said. 

Meanwhile, in the inn, Mr. Pickwick was giving 
Mr. Peter Magnus some good advice as to the best 
method of proposing. The latter finally plucked 
up his courage, saw the lady, proposed to her, and 
was accepted. In his gratitude, he insisted on tak- 
ing Mr. Pickwick to be introduced to her. 

The instant he saw her, however, Mr. Pick- 
wick uttered an exclamation, and the lady, with a 
slight scream, hid her face in her hands. She was 
none other than the owner of the room into which 
Mr. Pickwick had intruded the night before. 

Mr. Peter Magnus, in astonishment, demanded 
where and when they had seen each other before. 
This the lady declared she would not reveal for the 
world, and Mr. Pickwick likewise refusing, the 
other flew into a jealous rage, which ended in his 
rushing from the room swearing he would chal- 
lenge Mr. Pickwick to mortal combat. Tupman, 
Winkle and Snodgrass being announced at that mo- 
234 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

ment, Mr. Pickwick joined them, and the middle- 
aged lady was left alone in a state of terrible alarm. 

The longer she thought the more terrified she be- 
came at the idea of possible bloodshed and harm 
to her lover. At length, overcome by dread, 
and knowing no other way to stop the duel, she 
hastened to the house of the mayor of the town, a 
pompous magistrate named Nupkins, and begged 
him to stop the duel. Not wishing to make trouble 
for Mr. Peter Magnus, she declared that the two 
rioters who threatened to disturb the peace of the 
town were named Pickwick and Tupman; these 
two, Nupkins, thinking them cutthroats from Lon- 
don, at once sent men to arrest. 

Mr. Pickwick was just telling his followers the 
story of his mishap of the night before, when a 
half-dozen officers burst into the room. Boiling 
with indignation, Mr. Pickwick had to submit, and 
the officers put him and Tupman into an old sedan- 
chair and carried them ofif, followed by Winkle 
and Snodgrass and by all the town loafers. 

Sam Weller met the procession and tried to res- 
cue them, but was knocked down and taken pris- 
oner also. So they were all brought to Nupkins's 
house. 

The mayor refused to hear a word Mr. Pick- 
wick said and was about to send them all to jail 
as desperate characters when Sam Weller called 
his master aside and whispered to him that the 
house they were in was the very one from which 
235 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

he had seen Job Trotter come, and from this fact 
he guessed that Jingle himself had wormed him- 
self into the good graces of the mayor. At this Mr. 
Pickwick asked to have a private talk with Nup- 
kins. 

This was grudgingly granted and in a few mo- 
ments Mr. Pickwick had learned that Jingle, call- 
ing himself "Captain Fitz-Marshall," had im- 
posed so well on the pompous mayor that the lat- 
ter's wife and daughter had introduced him every- 
where and he himself had boasted to everybody of 
his acquaintance. 

It was Nupkins's turn to feel humble when Mr. 
Pickwick told him Jingle's real character. He was 
terribly afraid the story would get out and that the 
town would laugh at him, so he became all at once 
tremendously polite, declared their arrest had been 
all a mistake and begged the Pickwickians to make 
themselves at home. Sam Weller was sent down to 
the kitchen to get his dinner, where he met a pretty 
housemaid named Mary, with whom he proceeded 
to fall very much in love for the first time in his 
life. 

Jingle and Job walked into the trap a little later, 
not expecting the kind of reception they were to 
find there. But even before the combined scorn of 
Nupkins, Mrs. Nupkins, Miss Nupkins and the 
Pickwickians, Jingle showed a brazen front. He 
knew pride would prevent the mayor from expos- 
ing him, and when finally shown the door, he left 
236 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

with a mocking jeer, followed by the chuckling 
Job. 

In spite of his own troubles Mr. Pickwick left 
Ipswich comforted by the defeat of Jingle. As for 
Sam, he kissed the pretty housemaid behind the 
door and they parted with mutual regrets. 

To atone for these difficult adventures, the Pick- 
wickians prepared for a long visit to Dingley Dell, 
where they spent an old-fashioned Merry Christ- 
mas; where they found the fat boy even fatter and 
Mr. Wardle even jollier; where Tupman was not 
saddened by the sight of his lost love, the spinster 
aunt, who had been sent to live with another rela- 
tive; where Snodgrass came more than ever to ad- 
mire Emily, the pretty daughter; where Winkle 
fell head over ears in love with a black-eyed young 
lady visitor named Arabella Allen, who wore a 
nice little pair of boots with fur around the top; 
where they went skating and Mr. Pickwick broke 
through, and had to be carried home and put to 
bed; where they hung mistletoe and told stories, 
and altogether enjoyed themselves in a hundred 
ways. 

Ben Allen, Arabella's brother, reached Dingley 
Dell on Christmas Day — a thick-set, mildewy 
young man, with short black hair, a long white 
face and spectacles. He was a medical student, 
and brought with him his chum, Bob Sawyer, a 
slovenly, smart, swaggering young gentleman, 
who smelled strongly of tobacco smoke and looked 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

like a dissipated Robinson Crusoe. Ben intended 
that his chum should marry his sister Arabella, 
and Bob Sawyer paid her so much attention that 
Winkle began to hate him on the spot. 

The Christmas merrymaking was all too soon 
over, and as Mrs. Bardell's lawsuit against Mr. 
Pickwick was shortly to be tried, the Pickwickians 
returned regretfully to the city. 



VI 



THE CELEBRATED CASE OF BARDELL AGAINST PICK- 
WICK. SERGEANT BUZFUZ'S SPEECH AND 
AN UNEXPECTED VERDICT 

On the morning of the trial Mr. Pickwick went 
to court certain that the outcome would be in his 
favor. The room was full of people, and all the 
Pickwickians were there when he arrived. The 
Judge was a very short man, so plump that he 
seemed all face and waistcoat. When he had 
rolled in upon two little turned legs, and sat down 
at his desk, all you could see of him was two little 
eyes, one broad pink face, and about half of a 
comical, big wig. Scarcely had the jurors taken 
their Seats, when Mrs. Bardell's lawyers brought 
in the lady herself, half hysterical, and supported 
by two tearful lady friends. The ushers called for 
silence and the trial began. 

The lawyer who spoke for Mrs, Bardell was 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

named Sergeant Buzfuz, a blustering man with a 
fat body and a red face. He began by picturing 
Mr. Pickwick's housekeeper as a lonely widow 
who had been heartlessly deceived by the villainy 
of her lodger. He declared that for two years, 
Mrs. Bardell had attended to Mr. Pickwick's 
comforts, that once he had patted her little boy on 
the head and asked him how he would like to have 
another father; that he had also asked her to 
marry him, and on the same day had been seen by 
three of his friends holding her in his arms and 
soothing her agitation. Drawing forth two scraps 
of paper. Sergeant Buzfuz went on: 

''Gentlemen, one word more. Two letters have 
passed between these parties, which speak volumes. 
They are not open, fervent letters of affection. 
They are sly, underhanded communications evi- 
dently intended by Pickwick to mislead and delude 
any one into whose hands they might fall. Let me 
read the first: ^Dear Mrs. B. — Chops and tomato 
Sauce. Yours, Pickwick.'' Gentlemen, what does 
this mean? Chops! Gracious Heavens! and To- 
mato Sauce. Gentlemen, is the happiness of a trust- 
ing female to be trifled away by such shallow 
tricks? The next has no date. ^Dear Mrs. B. — / 
shall not be at home till to-morroiv.' And then fol- 
lows this remarkable expression — ^Dont trouble 
yourself about the warming-pan.' The warming- 
pan! Why is Mrs. Bardell begged not to trouble 
herself about this warming-pan, unless (as is no 

239 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

doubt the case) it is a mere substitute for some en- 
dearing word or promise, cunningly used by Pick- 
wick, with a view to his intended desertion? 

"But enough of this, gentlemen. It is hard to 
smile with an aching heart. My client's hopes are 
ruined. All is gloom in the house; the child's 
sports are forgotten while his mother weeps. But 
Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the pitiless de- 
stroyer — Pickwick who comes before you to-day 
with his heartless tomato sauce and warming-pans 
— Pickwick still rears his head, and gazes without 
a sigh on the ruins he has made. Damages, gentle- 
men, heavy damages is the only punishment with 
which you can visit him. And for these damages, 
my client now appeals to a high-minded, a right- 
feeling, a sympathizing jury of her countrymen!" 

With this Sergeant Buzfuz stopped, and began 
to call his witnesses. The first was one of Mrs. 
Bardell's female cronies, whose testimony of 
course, was all in her favor. 

Then Winkle was called. Knowing that he was 
a friend of Mr. Pickwick's, Mrs. Bardell's lawyers 
browbeat and puzzled him till poor Mr. Winkle 
had the air of a disconcerted pickpocket, and was 
in a terrible state of confusion. He was soon made 
to tell how, with Tupman and Snodgrass, he had 
come into Mr. Pickwick's lodgings one day to find 
him holding Mrs. Bardell in his arms. The other 
two Pickwickians were also compelled to testify to 
this. 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

Nor was this all. Sergeant Buzfuz finally en- 
trapped the agonized Winkle into telling how Mr. 
Pickwick had been found at night in the wrong 
room at the Ipswich Inn and how as a result a 
lady's marriage had been broken off and the whole 
party arrested and taken before the mayor. Poor 
Winkle was obliged to tell this, though he knew it 
would hurt the case of Mr. Pickwick. When he 
was released he rushed away to the nearest inn, 
where he was found some hours later by the waiter, 
groaning dismally with his head under the sofa 
cushions. 

Mr. Pickwick's case looked black. The only 
comfort he received was from the testimony of Sam 
Weller, who tried to do Mrs. Bardell's side all pos- 
sible harm yet say as little about his master as he 
could, and who kept the court room in a roar of 
laughter with his sallies. 

"Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller," said Ser- 
geant Buzfuz finally, "that you saw nothing of 
Mrs. Bardell's fainting in the arms of Mr. Pick- 
wick? Have you a pair of eyes, Mr. Weller?" 

"Yes, I have a pair of eyes," replied Sam, "and 
that's just it. If they was a pair o' patent-double- 
million-magnifyin'-gas-miscroscopes of hextra 
power, p'r'aps I might be able to see through a 
flight o' stairs and a deal door; but bein' only eyes, 
you see, my wision's limited." Sergeant Buzfuz 
could make nothing out of Sam, and so the case for 
Mrs. Bardell closed. 

241 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Mr. Pickwick's lawyer made a long speech in 
his favor, but it was of no use. The evidence 
seemed all against him. The jury found him guilty 
of breach of promise of marriage, and sentenced 
him to pay Mrs. Bardell her damages. 

Mr. Pickwick was speechless with indignation. 
He vowed that not one penny would he ever pay if 
he spent the rest of his life in a jail. His own law- 
yer warned him that if he did not pay within two 
months, Mrs. Bardell's lawyers could put him into 
the debtors' prison, but Mr. Pickwick prepared to 
start on another excursion with his three friends, 
still declaring that he would never pay. 



vn 



WINKLE HAS AN EXCITING ADVENTURE WITH MR. 
DOWLER, AND WITH THE AID OF MR. PICK- 
WICK AND SAM WELLER DISCOVERS 
THE WHEREABOUTS OF MISS 
ARABELLA ALLEN 

At Bath, a resort very popular with people of 
fashion, the Pickwickians decided to spend the 
next two months, and started by coach at once, ac- 
corripanied by Sam Weller. On the coach they fell 
in with a fierce-looking, abrupt gentleman named 
Dowler, with a bald, glossy forehead and large 
black whiskers, who introduced them to the so- 
ciety of Bath, particularly to Mr. Angelo Cyrus 
242 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

Bantam, master of ceremonies at the famous As- 
sembly-Room, where the fashionable balls were 
held. Mr. Bantam carried a gold eye-glass, a gold 
snuff-box, gold rings on his finger, a gold watch 
in his waistcoat pocket, a gold chain and an ebony 
cane with a gold head. His linen was the whitest, 
his wig the blackest, and his teeth were so fine that 
it was hard to tell the real ones from the false ones. 

Mr. Bantam made the Pickwickians welcome 
and in three days' time they were settled in a fine 
house, where Mr. and Mrs. Dowler also lodged. 
Mr. Pickwick passed his days in drinking the 
spring-water for which Bath was famous, and in 
walking; his evenings he spent at the Assembly 
balls, at the theater or in making entries in his 
journal. 

One evening Mrs. Dowler was carried off to a 
party in her sedan-chair, leaving her husband to 
sit up for her. The Pickwickians had long since 
gone to bed, and Mr. Dowler fell fast asleep while 
he waited. It was a very windy night and the se- 
dan-carriers, who brought the lady home, knocked 
in vain at the door. Mr. Dowler did not wake, 
though they knocked like an insane postman. 

At length Winkle in his own room was roused 
by the racket. He donned slippers and dressing- 
gown, hurried down stairs half asleep and opened 
the door. At the glare of the torches he jumped to 
the conclusion that the house was on fire and rushed 
outside, when the door blew shut behind him. 
243 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Seeing a lady's face at the window of the sedan- 
chair, he turned and knocked at the door frantic- 
ally, but with no response. He was undressed and 
the wind blew his dressing-gown in a most unpleas- 
ant manner. "There are people coming down the 
street now. There are ladies with 'em; cover me 
up with something! Stand before me!" roared 
Winkle, but the chairmen only laughed. The 
ladies were nearer and in desperation he bolted 
into the sedan-chair where Mrs. Dowler was. 

Now Mr. Dowler, a moment before, had 
bounced ofif the bed, and now threw open the win- 
dow just in time to see this. He thought his wife 
was running away with another man, and seizing a 
supper knife, the indignant husband tore into the 
street, shouting furiously. 

Winkle, hearing his horrible threats, did not 
wait. He leaped out of the sedan-chair and took to 
his heels, hotly pursued by Dowler. He dodged 
his pursuer at length, rushed back, slammed the 
door in Dowler's face, gained his bedroom, bar- 
ricaded his door with furniture and packed his be- 
longings. At the first streak of dawn, he slipped 
out and took coach for Bristol. 

Mr. Pickwick was greatly vexed over Winkle's 
unheroic flight. Sam Weller soon discovered 
where he had gone, and Mr. Pickwick sent him 
after the fugitive, bidding him find Winkle and 
either compel him to return or keep him in sight 
until Mr. Pickwick himself could follow. 
244 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

Winkle, meanwhile, walking about the Bristol 
streets, chanced to stop at a doctor's office to make 
some inquiries, and in a young medical gentleman 
in green spectacles recognized, to his huge sur- 
prise, Bob Sawyer, the bosom friend of Ben Allen, 
both of whom he had met on Christmas Day at 
Dingley Dell. Bob, in delight, dragged Winkle 
into the back room where sat Ben Allen, amusing 
himself by boring holes in the chimney piece with 
a red-hot poker. 

The precious couple had, in fact, set up shop to- 
gether, and were using every trick they knew to 
make people think them great doctors with a tre- 
mendous practice. They insisted on Winkle's stay- 
ing to supper, and it was lucky he did so, for he 
heard news of Arabella, the pretty girl who had 
worn the little boots with fur around the top at 
Dingley Dell, and with whom he had fallen in 
love. He learned that Arabella had scorned the 
sprightly Bob Sawyer, and that her brother, in 
anger, had taken her away from Mr. Wardle's and 
put her in the house of an old aunt — a dull, close 
place not far from Bristol. Before he bade them 
good night. Winkle had determined to find her. 

He met with a shock, on returning to his inn, 
to come suddenly upon Dowler sitting in the coffee- 
room. Winkle drew back, very pale, and was 
greatly surprised to see the bloodthirsty Dowler 
do likewise as, growing even paler than Winkle, he 
began an apology for his action of the evening 

245 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

before. As a matter of fact, Dowler had run away 
from Bath, too, at dawn, in fear of Winkle, and 
thought now the latter had pursued him. Winkle, 
suspecting this, put on a look of great fierceness 
but accepted the apology, and the pair shook 
hands. 

Winkle's plan for finding Arabella Allen met 
now with a set-back. Sam Weller arrived at mid- 
night and insisted that Winkle be waked at once. 
Once in his room, Sam told him Mr. Pickwick's 
instructions and declared he would not leave his 
sight till Winkle came back with him to Bath. This 
was awkward, but luckily, Mr. Pickwick himself, 
to whom Sam wrote, arrived next day and released 
his follower. 

Mr. Pickwick approved of Winkle's determina- 
tion to find the pretty Arabella, and so the next 
morning Sam Weller was sent on a voyage of dis- 
covery among the servants of the town. For many 
hours Sam searched in vain without a clue. 

In the afternoon he sat in a lane running be- 
tween rows of gardens in one of the suburbs, when 
a gate opened and a maid-servant came out to 
shake some carpets. Sam gallantly rose to help 
her, when she uttered a half-suppressed scream. 
It was Mary, the good-looking housemaid whom 
Sam had kissed at the house of Nupkins, the mayor 
of Ipswich, on the day of the arrest of the Pick- 
wickians and the exposure of Jingle. She had left 
her place there for this new situation. 
246 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

When Sam had finished his gallant speeches and 
Mary her blushing, he told her of Winkle's search. 
What was his surprise when she told him that 
Arabella was living the very next door. She let 
Sam come into the garden, and presently when 
Arabella came out to walk, he scrambled on to the 
wall and pleaded Winkle's cause. 

"Ve thought ve should ha' been obliged to strait- 
veskit him last night," he declared. "He's been 
a- ravin' all day; and he says if he can't see you 
afore to-morrow night's over, he vishes he may be 
somethin'-unpleasanted if he don't drownd his- 
self." 

Arabella, in great distress at this prospect, prom- 
ised she would be in the garden next evening, and 
Sam returned with the news to Mr. Pickwick and 
Winkle. 

The next evening all three set out for the spot. 
Mary let them into the garden and, while Winkle 
climbed the wall to throw himself at Arabella's 
feet, Mr. Pickwick kept guard at the gate with a 
dark lantern. So far he threw its beam that a 
scientific gentleman who lived a few houses away, 
seeing the light from his window, took it for some 
new and wonderful freak of electricity and came 
out to investigate. 

Before he arrived, however. Winkle had scram- 
bled back over the wall and Arabella had run into 
the house. Seeing the scientific gentleman's head 
poked out of a garden-gate as they passed, Sam 
247 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

gave it a gentle tap with his fist and then, hoisting 
Mr. Pickwick on his back, and followed by 
Winkle, he ran ofif at full speed, leaving the scien- 
tific gentleman to go back to his room and write 
a long article about the wonderful light and to tell 
how he had received a shock of electricity which 
left him stunned for a quarter of an hour after- 
ward. 

The Pickwickians' stay at Bath came to an end 
soon after this adventure, and their leader, with 
Sam Weller, returned to London. 

VIII 

MR. PICKWICK'S EXPERIENCES IN THE DEBTORS' 

PRISON, WHERE HE FINDS AN OLD ENEMY 

AND HEAPS COALS OF FIRE ON THE 

HEAD OF MRS. BARDELL 

Mr. Pickwick had not been long in London 
when his lawyer's warning proved too true. One 
morning a bailifl forced his way to his bedroom 
and, since he had not paid the damages to Mrs. 
Bardell, arrested him in bed, waited till he was 
dressed and carried him ofl to the debtors' prison. 

The prison was called The Fleet. It was a 
gloomy building with a heavy gate, guarded by a 
turnkey, holding all classes, from laboring men 
to broken-down spendthrifts. Its filthy galleries, 
and low cofTee-room reeked with tobacco smoke 
248 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

and its open court was noisy with the oaths of card- 
players. In some of the rooms lived men with their 
wives and whole families of children, and Mr. 
Pickwick found he would have to pay extra even 
to have a room to himself. 

Caged with this coarse, vulgar crowd, Mr. Pick- 
wick suffered greatly, but no idea of paying the un- 
just damages entered his mind. Instead, he busied 
himself with wandering about the prison and 
learning all he could of its customs and inmates. 
Those who, like himself, had money were well- 
treated. Those who had none lived in starvation 
and wretchedness. In one wall was a kind of iron 
cage, within which was posted a lean and hungry 
prisoner who rattled a money-box and called out: 
"Remember the poor debtors!" The money he 
collected from passers-by in the street was divided 
and bought food for the poorest. 

As Mr. Pickwick entered the room given over to 
the latter class, he started. In one of its occupants, 
clad in tattered garments and yellow shirt, pinched 
with starvation and pale with illness, he saw Al- 
fred Jingle; and near him, faithful still in rags 
and dirt, was Job Trotter. 

Jingle was no longer jaunty and impudent. He 
had pawned all his belongings; had lived, in fact, 
for the last week on a silk umbrella with an ivory 
handle. His smile now was a mere twitch of the 
face as he said: "Nothing soon — starve — die — 
workhouse funeral — serve him right — all over — 
249 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

drop the curtain!" Unable, however, to keep up 
this make-believe recklessness. Jingle sat down 
at length and sobbed like a child. 

Mr. Pickwick was greatly moved at the sight, 
and gave Job some money for his master as he 
turned away. 

Sam Weller had come with Mr. Pickwick to 
the prison. The latter, however, told his servant 
he must now leave him, though his wages would go 
on as usual. Sam pretended to agree, but lost no 
time in going to his father with a plan by which he, 
too, should be sent to the Fleet Prison for debt, so 
as to be near his master. He borrowed some money 
from the old stage-driver, and then when he re- 
fused to pay it, his father had him arrested and sent 
to the prison as he wished. Old Tony Weller and 
all his friends went with him, and gave him three 
tremendous cheers at the door. When Mr. Pick- 
wick saw Sam return and learned what he had 
done, he was much affected at the devotion of this 
faithful servant and felt himself more fond of him 
than ever. 

It was a long time before Winkle, Tupman and 
Snodgrass learned of their leader's imprisonment 
and came to see him. Sam also had visitors in the 
person of his mother-in-law (who, of course, did 
not know he had brought about his own arrest) 
and the hypocritical, red-nosed preacher who came 
with her to lecture him on his evil ways. 

Old Tony Weller came, too, with a plan that 
250 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

he had thought of for Mr. Pickwick's escape in a 
piano. 

"It'll hold him easy," he whispered, "with his 
hat and shoes on, and breathe through the legs, 
vich is holler. Have a passage ready taken for 
'Mericker. The 'Merikin gov'ment will never give 
him up when they finds as he's got money to 
spend, Sammy. Let him stop there till Mrs. Bar- 
dell's dead, then let him come back and write 
a book about the 'Merikins as'U pay all his ex- 
penses and more if he blows 'em up enough." 

But Mr. Pickwick did not avail himself of this 
plan to escape to America. Day by day he wan- 
dered about the prison, learning its tales of misery 
and hopelessness, till his head and his heart ached 
and he could bear no more. For three months he 
remained there, shut up all day, stealing from his 
room only at night, and no entreaties would induce 
him to pay the money which was keeping him a 
prisoner. 

Mrs. Bardell's lawyers meanwhile grew im- 
patient. They had not been paid even the costs of 
the trial, and these Mrs. Bardell had agreed to pay 
if they won the suit. As Mr. Pickwick had not 
paid the damages, however, she had no money, and 
so the lawyers at last had her arrested, and she, too, 
was sent to the Fleet Prison. After a few hours 
there, Mrs. Bardell was willing to do anything to 
escape, and she agreed if Mr. Pickwick paid the 
costs, to release him from the damages. 

251 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Mr. Pickwick was still so indignant that he 
would possibly not have consented, but at this junc- 
ture Winkle entered, leading by the hand the 
beautiful girl who had been Arabella Allen, but 
whom he introduced now as Mrs. Winkle. He 
had run away with her from the old aunt's house, 
with the help of Mary, the pretty housemaid, and 
they had been married without the knowledge of 
Winkle's father. They had come to Mr. Pickwick 
to beg him to go and plead with old Mr. Winkle 
for forgiveness. 

Arabella's tears and Winkle's plight proved too 
much for Mr. Pickwick's resolution. He paid Mrs. 
Bardell's costs and left Fleet Prison that very day, 
with Sam Weller, whose father, of course, immedi- 
ately released him also. 



IX 



SNODGRASS GETS INTO DIFFICULTIES, BUT WINS HIS 

LADY-LOVE. THE ADVENTURES OF THE 

PICKWICKIANS COME TO AN END 

Mr. Pickwick journeyed first to Bristol, to break 
the news of Arabella's marriage to her brother, 
Ben Allen. The latter was angry at first, but finally 
he and Bob Sawyer shook hands with the visitor 
and agreed to treasure no ill-feeling. 

Both the young gentlemen insisted on going with 
Mr. Pickwick to the Winkle homestead — a cir- 
252 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

cumstance which did not make that visit an easy- 
one. Arabella's brother went fast asleep in the par- 
lor while they waited, and when Bob Sawyer 
pinched him, as the old gentleman entered, he 
awoke with a shriek without the least idea where 
he was. 

This was most embarrassing to Mr. Pickwick, 
but he said all he could for Winkle. The old 
gentleman, however, would send no message to 
his son, and Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller re- 
turned with disappointment. 

In London Sam found a letter awaiting him 
from his father. His mother-in-law was dead and 
the public house and its earnings were now the old 
stage-driver's. Sam went to see old Tony and found 
him terrified. All the widows in town were setting 
their caps for him and he was afraid one of them 
would succeed in marrying him. He had deter- 
mined to sell out the business, give the money to 
Mr. Pickwick to invest for him, and keep to stage- 
driving so as to be safe. 

While Sam sat with his father talking matters 
over, the red-nosed preacher came sidling in to in- 
quire whether Mrs. Weller's will had not left 
some money for him. He felt so much at home 
that he went to the cupboard and poured himself 
out a big tumbler of his favorite pineapple rum. 
This was more than old Tony Weller could stand. 
He fell upon the old hypocrite, kicked him through 
the door and ducked him in the horse trough. 
253 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Mr. Pickwick, meanwhile, had been arranging 
to buy the release of Jingle and Job Trotter, and to 
send them to the West Indies, where they might 
have a chance to make an honest living. While 
he was attending to this at his lawyer's, a prolonged 
knock came at the door. It was Joe, Mr. Wardle's 
fat boy, erect, but gone fast asleep between his 
knocks. 

Mr. Wardle came up from his carriage, de- 
lighted to see his old friend, of whose imprison- 
ment he had just heard. He told Mr. Pick- 
wick that his daughter Emily had fallen in love 
with Snodgrass, and that, discovering it, he had 
brought her to London to ask the advice of Mr. 
Pickwick in the matter. While they talked he sent 
the fat boy back to the inn to tell Emily that Mr. 
Pickwick would dine there with them. 

The fat boy went on this errand, and coming 
suddenly into the inn sitting-room, discovered 
Emily, with her waist encircled with Snodgrass's 
arm while Arabella and her pretty housemaid 
were obligingly looking out of the window. There 
was but one thing to do: they bribed the fat boy 
not to tell ! 

Snodgrass, unluckily, stayed too long. As he 
was leaving, he heard Mr. Wardle, with Mr. Pick- 
wick and Winkle, coming up the stair. He was 
obliged to retreat, and took refuge in Mr. Wardle's 
bedroom, from which there was no escape, save 
through the dining-room. 
254 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

The dinner hour was a painful one to Emily, 
for the fat boy's secret kept him awake, and he 
winked at her and at Arabella so often that Mr. 
Wardle noticed it. The latter sent him into the 
bedroom finally for his snufif-box and he came out 
very pale, Mr. Snodgrass having seized him there, 
and begged him to tell some one secretly to release 
him. 

Accordingly the fat boy made desperate efforts 
to attract Mr. Pickwick's attention — first by mak- 
ing faces at him when he thought no one else was 
looking and finally by running a pin into his leg. 
But this did not have the desired results. Mr. Pick- 
wick concluded he was crazy, and Mr. Wardle was 
about to have him taken down stairs, when into the 
confusion, with a very red face, walked Snodgrass, 
out of the bedroom. He explained his presence 
there, declared his love for Emily, was forgiven 
on the spot and joined the dinner. 

The happiness of all was complete when old 
Mr. Winkle arrived (having made up his mind 
to see his son's wife and judge for himself) and 
found Arabella so sweet that he kissed her and for- 
gave Winkle on the instant. 

Thus the last adventure of the Pickwickians 
ended happily. Mr. Pickwick had seen, before this, 
that the marriage of his companions would change 
his own life. He withdrew his name from the Pick- 
wick Club (which thereupon went to pieces), and 
purchased a house near London for the entertain- 

255 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

ment of his friends, and there a few days later Snod- 
grass and Emily were married in the presence of 
Mr. Wardle and all the Pickwickians. 

After the wedding, Snodgrass bought a farm 
near Dingley Dell where, with Emily, he lived 
many years, and was always accounted a great poet 
on account of his pensive and absent-minded man- 
ner. Winkle, with Arabella, settled a half-mile 
from Mr. Pickwick. Tupman never again fell in 
love, though for years his romantic air made him 
the admiration of numerous single ladies of the 
neighborhood. 

Ben Allen and Bob Sawyer went to India as sur- 
geons where (after having had yellow fever four- 
teen times) they became teetotalers and thereafter 
did well. Mrs. Bardell continued to let lodgings 
to single gentlemen, but never had another breach 
of promise suit. Old Tony Weller finally gave up 
business and retired to live on the interest of the 
money Mr. Pickwick had invested for him, hav- 
ing, to the end of his life, a great dislike for 
widows. His son, Sam, remaining faithful to his 
master, Mr. Pickwick at length made Mary, the 
pretty maid, his housekeeper, on condition that 
she marry Sam, which she did at once. 

Mr. Pickwick lived happily, occupied in writ- 
ing his adventures and in acting as godfather to 
the children of Snodgrass and Winkle. He never 
regretted what he had done for Jingle and Job 
Trotter, who became in time worthy members of 
256 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS 

society. He was a favorite with all and the children 
loved him. Every year he went to Mr. Wardle's 
to a large merrymaking, attended by his faithful 
Sam Weller, between whom and his master there 
was a regard that nothing but death could end. 



257 



LITTLE DORRIT 

Published 1855-1857 

Scene: London and Various Places on the Continent 
Time: 1827 to 1830 

CHARACTERS 

Mr. Dorrit An inmate of the debtors' prison 

Known as "The Father of the Marshalsea." Later a 
wealthy man of the world 

"Little Dorrit" His daughter Amy 

Fanny His older daughter 

"Tip" His son 

Mrs. General His daughters' chaperon 

Arthur Clennam Little Dorrit's champion 

Mr. Clennam His father 

Mrs. Clennam His supposed mother 

Flintwinch A family servant 

Later Mrs. Clennam's partner in business 

Affery His wife, and Mrs. Clennam's servant 

Pancks A rent collector. Little Dorrit's friend 

John Chivery The son of one of the prison turnkeys 

Little Dorrit's suitor 

Maggy A half-witted woman 

Doyce An inventor. Arthur's partner in business 

Rigaud A blackmailing adventurer and jailbird 

Mr. Tite Barnacle A self-important official in the 

"Circumlocution Office" 

Mr, Merdle A supposedly wealthy man of afifairs in 

London 

Mrs. Merdle His wife 

Mr. Meagles A business man. Arthur's friend 

Mrs. Meagles His wife 

"Pet" Their daughter 

"Tattycoram" Pet's maid 

259 



LITTLE DORRIT 



HOW ARTHUR CAME HOME FROM CHINA 

A long, long time ago there lived in London a 
young man named Clennam. He was an orphan, 
and was brought up by a stern uncle, who crushed 
and repressed his youth and finally forced him to 
marry a cold, unfeeling, stubborn woman whom he 
did not in the least love. 

Some time before this marriage, the nephew had 
met a beautiful young woman, also an orphan, 
whom a rich man named Dorrit was educating to 
be a singer, since she had a remarkable voice. 
Clennam had fallen in love with her and had per- 
suaded her to give him all her love in return. 
There had even been a kind of ceremony of mar- 
riage between them. 

But they were both very poor and could not 
really marry for fear of the anger of Clennam's 
cruel uncle, who finally compelled his nephew to 
marry the other woman, whom he had picked out 
for him. And the singer, because she loved him 
and could not bear to see him made a beggar, gave 
him up. So Clennam married one woman while 
loving another, and this, as all wrong things must 
do, resulted in unhappiness for them both. 
261 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

The singer had given him a little silk watch- 
paper worked in beads with the initials D. N. F. 
These letters stood for the words, "Do Not For- 
get." 

The wife saw the paper with her husband's 
watch in his secret drawer and wondered what it 
meant. One day she found an old letter, that had 
passed between her husband and the singer, which 
explained the initials and betrayed the secret of 
their love. 

She was hard and unforgiving. Though she had 
never loved Clennam herself, her anger was ter- 
rible. She went to the singer, and under threat of 
for ever disgracing her in the eyes of the world, 
she made her give up to her her baby boy, Arthur, 
to rear as her own. She promised, in return, that 
the little Arthur should be provided for and should 
never know the real history of his parentage. She 
also compelled her husband and the singer to take 
an oath that neither would ever see or communi- 
cate with the other again. 

Mrs. Clennam, in taking this terrible revenge, 
cheated herself into believing that she was only the 
instrument of God, carrying out His will and pun- 
ishment. But in reality she was satisfying the rage 
and hatred of her own heart. Year by year she 
nursed this rage in the gloomy house in which 
Clennam lived and where he carried on the Lon- 
don branch of his business. 

It was an old brick house separated from the 
262 



LITTLE DORRIT 

street by a rusty courtyard. It seemed to have 
once been about to slide down sidewise, but had 
been propped up as though it leaned on some half- 
dozen gigantic crutches. Inside it was dark and 
miserable, with sunken floors and blackened fur- 
niture. In a corner of the sitting-room was an 
ugly ol(^ clock that was wound once a week with 
an iron handle, and on the walls were pictures 
showing the "Plagues of Egypt." The only pleas- 
ure the grim woman enjoyed was reading aloud 
from those parts of the Old Testament which call 
for dreadful punishments to fall upon all the en- 
emies of the righteous, and in these passages she 
gloried. 

In this melancholy place the boy Arthur Clen- 
nam grew up in silence and in dread, wondering 
much why they lived so lonely and why his father 
and mother (for so he thought Mrs. Clennam to 
be) sat always so silent with faces turned from 
each other. 

There were but two servants, an old woman 
named Affery, and Flintwinch, her husband, a 
short, bald man, who was both clerk and footman, 
and who carried his head awry and walked in a 
one-sided crab-like way, as though he were falling 
and needed propping up like the house. Flint- 
winch was cunning and without conscience. Very 
few secrets his mistress had which he did not 
know, and they often quarreled. 

At length the uncle, who had compelled the un- 
263 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

happy marriage of Arthur's father, died. Feeling 
sorry at the last for the wretched singer, whose life 
had been ruined, he left her in his will a sum of 
money, and another sum to the youngest niece of 
the man who had befriended and educated her — 
Mr. Dorrit. 

This money, however, Mrs. Clennam did not 
intend either the woman she hated or the niece of 
her patron should get. She hid the part of the 
will which referred to it, and made Flintwinch 
(who, beside her husband, was the only one who 
knew of it) promise not to tell. Arthur's father 
she compelled to sail to China, to take charge of 
the branch of his business in that country, and 
when Arthur was old enough, she sent him there 
also. 

For twenty years, while Arthur stayed with his 
father on the other side of the world, Mrs. Clen- 
nam, cold and unforgiving as ever, lived on in the 
old, tumbling house, carrying on the London busi- 
ness with the aid of Flintwinch. 

The poor, forsaken singer lost her mind and at 
last died. Mr. Dorrit, of course, knowing noth- 
ing about the hidden will, could not claim his 
share, and the guilty secret remained (except for 
Arthur's unhappy father) in possession of only 
Mrs. Clennam and the crafty Flintwinch. 

So the years rolled by, and Mrs. Clennam's cold 
gray eyes grew colder, her gray hair grayer and 
her face more hard and stony. She went out less 
264 



LITTLE DORRIT 

and less, and finally paralysis made her keep to her 
room and her chair. 

The time came when Arthur's father lay dying 
with his son beside him. On his death-bed he did 
not forget the money which had never been re- 
stored. He had not strength to write, but with his 
dying hand he gave Arthur his watch, making him 
promise to take it back to England to the wife 
whose anger and hatred still lived. The watch 
still held the little paper with the bead initials that 
stood for "Do not forget," and he meant thus to 
remind her of the wrong which was still un- 
righted. 

Many times thereafter, on his way back to Lon- 
don, Arthur thought of his father's strange man- 
ner and wondered if it could be that some wrong 
deed lay on his conscience. This idea clung to 
him, so that when he saw Mrs. Clennam again 
on his arrival, and spoke to her of his father's last 
hours, he asked her if she thought this might be 
so. But at this her anger rose; she upbraided 
him and declared if he ever referred again to the 
subject she would renounce him as her son and cast 
him ofif for ever. 

It was her guilty conscience, of course, that 
caused this burst of rage. And yet, just because it 
was not for the money's sake that she had done 
that evil act, but because she so hated the woman 
to whom it should have been given, she- tried 
to convince herself that she had acted rightly, as 
265 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

the instrument of God, to punish wickedness. She 
had told herself this falsehood over and over again 
so often that she had ended by quite believing it 
to be the truth. 

Arthur said no more to her about the matter. 
He w^as a man now, and his father's death had 
made him master of a very considerable fortune. 
He decided that he would not carry on the busi- 
ness, but would make a new one for himself. 
This resolution angered Mrs. Clennam greatly, 
but she grimly determined to carry it on herself, 
and in Arthur's place took the wily Flintwinch 
as her partner and told Arthur coldly to go his 
own way. 

II 

THE CHILD OF THE MARSHALSEA 

On the first night of his return to the house of 
his childhood Arthur had noticed there a little 
seamstress, with pale, transparent face, hazel eyes 
and a figure as small as a child's. She wore a 
spare thin dress, spoke little, and passed through 
the rooms noiselessly and shy. They called her 
"Little Dorrit." She came in the morning and 
sewed quietly till nightfall, when she vanished. It 
had been so rare in the old days for any one to 
please the mistress of that gloomy house that the 
little creature's presence there interested Arthur 
266 



LITTLE DORRIT 

greatly and he longed to know something of her 
history. 

He soon found there was nothing to be learned 
from Flintwinch, and so one night he followed 
Little Dorrit when she left the house. To his 
great surprise he saw her finally enter a great bare 
building surrounded with spiked walls and called 
The Marshalsea. 

This was a famous prison where debtors were 
kept. In those days the law not only permitted a 
man to be put in jail for debt, but compelled him 
to stay there till all he owed was paid — a strange 
custom, since while he was in jail he was unable to 
earn any money to pay with. In fact, in many 
cases poor debtors had to stay there all their 
lives. 

Inside the walls of the Marshalsea the wives 
and children of unfortunate prisoners were al- 
lowed to come to live with them just as in a board- 
ing-house or hotel, but the debtors themselves 
could never pass out of the gate. Arthur entered 
the prison ignorant of its rules and so stayed too 
long, for presently the bell for closing rang, the 
gates were shut, and he had to stay inside all night. 
This was not so pleasant, but it gave him a chance 
easily to find out all he wished to learn of Little 
Dorrit's history. 

Her father, before she was born, had lost all his 
money through a business failure, and had thus 
been thrown into the Marshalsea. There Amy, or 
267 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Little Dorrit, as they came to call her, was born; 
there her mother had languished away, and there 
she herself had always lived, mothering her pretty 
frivolous sister Fanny, and her lazy, ne'er-do-well 
brother, 'Tip." 

Her father had been an inmate of the prison so 
many years that he was called "The Father of the 
Marshalsea." From being a haughty man of 
wealth, he had become a shabby old white-haired 
dignitary with a soft manner, who took little gifts 
of money which any one gave him half-shame- 
facedly and to the mortification of Little Dorrit 
alone. 

The child had grown up the favorite of the turn- 
keys and of all the prison, calling the high, blank 
walls "home." When she was a little slip of a girl 
she had her sister and brother sent to night-school 
for a time, and later taught herself fine sewing, so 
that at the time Arthur Clennam returned to Lon- 
don she was working every day outside the walls, 
for small wages. Each night she returned to the 
prison to prepare her father's supper, bringing 
him whatever she could hide from her own dinner 
at the house where she sewed, loving him devotedly 
through all. 

She even had a would-be lover, too. The son of 
one of the turnkeys, a young man with weak legs 
and weak, light hair, soft-hearted and soft-headed, 
had long pursued her in vain. He was now 
engaged in seeking comfort for his hopeless love 
268 



LITTLE DORRIT 

by composing epitaphs for his own tombstone, 
such as: 



Here Lie the Mortal Remains of 

JOHN CHIVERY 

Never Anything Worth Mentioning 

Who Died of a Broken Heart, Requesting With 

His Last Breath that the Word 

AMY 

Might be Inscribed Over His Ashes 
Which Was Done by His Afflicted Parents 



Old Mr. Dorrit held his position among the 
Marshalsea prisoners with great fancied dignity 
and received all visitors and new-comers in his 
room like a man of society at home. During that 
evening Arthur called on him and treated the old 
man so courteously and talked to Little Dorrit 
with such kindness that she began to love him from 
that moment. 

Many things of Little Dorrit's pathetic story 
Arthur learned that night. His first surprise at 
finding her in the Clennam house mingled strange- 
ly with his old thought that his father on his death- 
bed seemed to be troubled by some remorseful 
memory; and as he slept in the gloomy prison he 
dreamed that the little seamstress was in some 
mysterious way mingled with this wrong and re- 
morse. 

There was more truth than fancy in this dream. 
Not knowing the true history of his parentage, and 
wholly ignorant of the sad life and death of the 
269 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

poor singer, his own unhappy mother, Arthur had 
never heard the name Dorrit. He did not know, 
to be sure, that it was the name of the wealthy 
patron who had once educated her. As a matter 
of fact, this patron had been Little Dorrit's own 
uncle, who now was living in poverty. It was to 
his youngest niece that the will Mrs. Clennam had 
wickedly hidden declared the money should go. 
And as Little Dorrit was this niece, it rightfully 
belonged to her. The real reason of Mrs. Clen- 
nam's apparent kindness to Little Dorrit was the 
pricking of her conscience, which gave her no rest. 

But all this Arthur could not guess. Neverthe- 
less, he had gained such an interest in the little 
seamstress that next day he determined to find 
out all he could about her father's unfortunate 
affairs. 

He had great difficulty in this. The Govern- 
ment had taken charge of old Mr. Dorrit's debts, 
and his affairs were in the hands of a department 
which some people sneeringly called the "Circum- 
locution Office" — because it took so much time and 
talk for it to accomplish anything. This depart- 
ment had a great many clerks, every one of whom 
seemed to have nothing to do but to keep people 
from troubling them by finding out anything. 

Arthur went to one clerk, who sent him to a Mr. 
Tite Barnacle, a fat, pompous man with a big 
collar, a big watch chain and stiff boots. Mr. Bar- 
nacle treated him quite as an outsider and would 
270 



LITTLE DORRIT 

give him no information whatever. Then he 
tried another department, where they said they 
knew nothing of the matter. Still a third advised 
him not to bother about it. So at last he had to give 
up, quite discouraged. 

Though he could do nothing for Little Dorrit's 
father, Arthur did what he could for her lazy 
brother. He paid his debts so that he was re- 
leased from the Marshalsea, and this kindness, 
though Tip himself was ungrateful to the last de- 
gree, endeared him still more to Little Dorrit, 
who needed his friendship so greatly. 

The night her brother was released she came to 
Arthur to thank him — alone save for a half-witted 
woman named Maggie, who believed she herself 
was only ten years old, and called Little Dorrit 
"Little Mother," and who used to go with her 
when she went through the streets at night. Little 
Dorrit was dressed so thinly and looked so slight 
and helpless that when she left, Arthur felt as if he 
would like to take her up in his arms and carry 
her home again. 

It would have been better if he had. For when 
they got back to the Marshalsea the prison gates 
had closed for the night and they had to stay out 
till morning. They wandered in the cold street 
till nearly dawn; then a kind-hearted sex- 
ton who was opening a church let them come in 
and made Little Dorrit a bed of pew cushions, and 
there she slept a while with a big church book for 
271 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

a pillow. Arthur did not know of this adventure 
till long afterward, for Little Dorrit would not 
tell him for fear he should blame himself for 
letting them go home alone. 

Little Dorrit had one other valuable friend be- 
side Arthur at this time. This was a rent collector 
named Pancks, who was really kind-hearted, but 
who was compelled to squeeze rent money out of 
the poor by his master. The latter looked so good 
and benevolent that people called him "The 
Patriarch," but he was at heart a genuine skinflint, 
for whose meanness Pancks got all the credit. 
Pancks was a short, wiry man, with a scrubby chin 
and jet-black eyes, and when he walked or talked 
he puffed and blew and snorted like a little steam- 
engine. 

Little Dorrit used sometimes to go to sew at the 
house of "The Patriarch," and Pancks often saw 
her there. One day he greatly surprised her by 
asking to see the palm of her hand, and then he 
pretended to read her fortune. He told her all 
about herself (which astonished her, for she did 
not know that he knew anything of her history), 
and then, with many mysterious puffs and winks, 
he told her she would finally be happy. After that 
she seemed to meet Pancks wherever she went — at 
Mrs. Clennam's and at the Marshalsea as well — 
but at such meetings he would pretend not to know 
her. Only sometimes, when no one else was near, 
he would whisper: 

272 




Arthur Clennam calling on Little Dorrit and her father at The Marshalsea 

See page 26g 



LITTLE DORRIT 

"I'm Pancks, the gipsy — fortune-telling." 

These strange actions puzzled Little Dorrit 
very much. But she was far from guessing the 
truth: that Pancks had for some time been inter- 
ested (as had Arthur Clennam) in finding out 
how her father's affairs stood. He had discovered 
thus, accidentally, that old Mr. Dorrit was prob- 
ably the heir at law to a great estate that had lain 
for years forgotten, unclaimed and growing larger 
all the time. The question now was to prove this, 
and this, Pancks, out of friendship for Little Dor- 
rit, was busily trying to do. 

One day the rent-collector came to Arthur to 
tell him that he had succeeded. The proof was 
all found. Mr. Dorrit's right was clear; all he 
had to do was to sign his name to a paper, and the 
Marshalsea gates would open and he would be 
free and a rich man. 

Arthur found Little Dorrit and told her the 
glad tidings. They made her almost faint for joy, 
although all her rejoicing was for her father. 
Then he put her in a carriage and drove as fast 
as possible with her to the prison to carry her 
father the great news. 

Little Dorrit told the old man with her arms 
around his neck, and as she clasped him, thinking 
that she had never yet in her life known him as he 
had once been, before his prison years, she cried: 

"I shall see him as I never saw him yet — my 
dear love, with the dark cloud cleared away! I 
273 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

shall see him, as my poor mother saw him long 
ago! O my dear, my dear! O father, father! O 
thank God, thank God!" 

So "The Father of the Marshalsea" left the old 
prison, in which he had lived so long, and all the 
prisoners held a mass-meeting and gave him a fare- 
well address and a dinner. 

On the last day, when they drove away from the 
iron gates, old Mr. Dorrit was in fine, new cloth- 
ing, and Tip and Fanny were clad in the height 
of fashion. Poor Little Dorrit, in joy for her 
father and grief at parting from Arthur (for they 
were to go abroad at once), did not appear at the 
last moment, and Arthur, who had come to see 
them off, hastening to her room, found that she 
had fainted away. He carried her gently down to 
the carriage, and as he lifted her in, he saw she 
had put on the same thin little dress that she had 
worn on the day he had first seen her. 

So, amid cheers and good wishes, they drove 
away, and Arthur, as he walked back through the 
crowded streets, somehow felt very lonely. 



Ill 

WHAT RICHES BROUGHT TO THE DORRITS 

Great changes came to old Mr. Dorrit with his 
money. As they traveled slowly through Switzer- 
land and into Italy, he put on greater dignity daily. 
274 



LITTLE DORRIT 

He lived each day suspecting that every one was 
in some way trying to slight him and grew very 
much ashamed of his past years in the Marshalsea, 
and forbade all mention of them. He hired a great 
number of servants, and, to improve the manners 
of Fanny and Little Dorrit, he employed a woman 
named Mrs. General, who had many silly notions 
of society. 

Little Dorrit could not even say "father" with- 
out being reproved by Mrs. General. "Papa is 
preferable, my dear," the lady would insist, "and, 
besides, it gives a pretty form to the lips. Papa, po- 
tatoes, poultry, prunes and prisms are all good 
words for the lips. You will find it serviceable in 
the formation of a demeanor, if you say to your- 
self in company — on entering a room, for in- 
stance— 'Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes and 
prisms!' " 

Fanny and Tip were as spoiled as possible. 
Fanny, morning and night, thought of nothing but 
wearing costly dresses and "going into society," 
and Tip did little but play cards and bet on 
horse-races. Only Little Dorrit, through all, kept 
her old sweet self unchanged. 

Wherever they went they lived in splendid 
hotels. In Venice the palace they occupied was 
six times as big as the whole Marshalsea. Mr. 
Dorrit, when he remembered Arthur Clennam at 
all, spoke of him as an upstart who had intruded 
his presence upon them in their poverty, and 
275 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

quickly forgot all his kindness and his efforts to 
help and comfort them. 

But Little Dorrit never forgot. Her present 
existence seemed a dream. She tried to care for 
her father as she used to do, but he was afraid peo- 
ple would think he had not been used to servants 
(foolish man!) so she lost even the little pleasure 
of her old prison life in the Marshalsea. There 
were valets and maids now to do all the little 
things she had once loved to do with her own 
hands, and she seemed to be no longer of use to 
him. She loved her father as dearly as she always 
had, but now she had begun to feel that she could 
never see him as he used to be before his prison 
days, because first poverty and now wealth had 
changed him. The old sad shadow came over her. 
He grew angry at.her and chid her, and hurt her. 
It seemed he had entirely forgotten the old days 
when she slaved so for him. 

Poor little Dorrit! She was far lonelier now 
than she had ever been before in the debtors' prison 
— lonelier and unhappier than Arthur Clennam in 
London could have guessed. The gay, fashionable 
life of her brother and sister did not attract her. 
She was timid of joining in their gaieties. She 
asked leave only to be left alone, and went about 
the city in a gondola in a quiet, scared, lost man- 
ner. It often seemed to her as if the Marshalsea 
must be just behind the next big building, or Mrs. 
Clennam's house, where she had first met Arthur^ 
276 



LITTLE DORRIT 

just around the next corner. And she used to look 
into gondolas as they passed, as if she might see 
Arthur any minute. 

In the days of their prison-poverty Fanny had 
occasionally earned some money by dancing at a 
theater. There she had met a silly, chuckle-headed 
young man, the son of a Mrs. Merdle, and he had 
been fascinated by her beauty. Now, in their 
wealth, he saw Fanny again and fell even more 
deeply in love with her. Mrs. Merdle was a cold- 
hearted, artificial woman, who kept a parrot that 
was always shrieking, and who thought of nothing 
but riches and society. She would have refused 
to let her son marry Fanny in the old days, but now 
it was another matter. He proposed, and Fanny, 
who had been made angry a thousand times by 
Mrs. Merdle's insolence and patronizing ways, 
made up her mind to marry him if only to take her 
revenge on his mother. 

Mrs. Merdle's husband always stayed in Lon- 
don. He was immensely rich — so rich that people 
said everything he touched turned into gold. He 
was a quiet, dull man, with dull red cheeks, and 
cared nothing at all for society, though everybody 
flattered and courted him. 

When old Mr. Dorrit saw Mrs. Merdle's son 
was in love with Fanny he was greatly pleased. 
He had by this time grown so selfish that he con- 
sidered much less her happiness than his own 
profit, and he thought if they were married he 
2^^ 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

could persuade Mr. Merdle to invest his own great 
fortune for him, so that he would be even richer 
than he was now. Mr. Merdle's name had been 
growing bigger and bigger every day. Nobody be- 
lieved the great man could make a mistake, but 
that he was going to keep on getting richer and 
richer (though nobody knew how he did it) as 
long as he lived. 

So, before long, Fanny married Mrs. Merdle's 
son, and went back to London to take up life in 
the magnificent Merdle mansion with her silly, 
chuckle-headed husband. Mr. Merdle had got a 
very rich position for him in the "Circumlocution 
Office" with which Arthur Clennam had had so 
much trouble once on a time. 

Old Mr. Dorrit went to London, too, and, as he 
had schemed, gave the famous Mr. Merdle all his 
fortune to invest. Then he returned to Italy, 
where, in Rome, his faithful and lonely Little 
Dorrit waited lovingly for him. 

On the night after he reached Rome Mrs. Mer- 
dle gave a dinner party to a large company, and 
Little Dorrit and her father attended. 

In the midst of the dinner he suddenly called 
to her across the table. His voice was so loud and 
excited that all the guests were frightened and rose 
to their feet. Little Dorrit ran to him and put 
her arms about him, for she saw at once that he 
was not himself. 

He began to address the company, and his first 
278 



LITTLE DORRIT 

words showed that his mind had failed. He im- 
agined he was still in the debtors' prison and that 
all the rich people about him were the other poor 
prisoners. He made them a speech, welcoming 
them to its walls, thanking them in advance for 
any money they might give to him as "The Father 
of the Marshalsea." And he ended by calling for 
the old turnkey he had known there to help him 
up the narrow stair to bed, as he had been used 
to do in the prison. 

Little Dorrit was not ashamed — she loved him 
too much for that. Her only wish was to soothe 
him, and with a pale, frightened face, she begged 
him to come with her. 

They got him away at last and carried him to 
his house. Once laid on his bed, he never rose 
from it again. Nor did he regain his memory of 
the immediate present. That, with its show and 
its servants, its riches and power, in which Little 
Dorrit had had so small a part, had faded out for 
ever, and now his mind, back in the Marshalsea, 
recognized his daughter as his only stay and faith- 
ful comfort. 

It was well so, for this was the father she had 
most loved. 

So she watched beside him day and night, while 
every day his life grew weaker and weaker. Every 
day the shadow of death stole deeper and deeper 
over his face, until one morning, when the dawn 
came, they saw that he would never wake again. 
279 



TALES FROM DICKENSJ 
IV 

WHAT HAPPENED TO ARTHUR CLENNAM 

Arthur, meanwhile, had missed Little Dorrit 
greatly. He was very friendly with a couple 
named Meagles — a comely, healthy, good-hu- 
mored and kind-hearted pair, and he was so lonely 
he almost thought himself in love with their 
daughter "Pet" for a while. But Pet soon mar- 
ried a portrait-painter and went to live abroad. 

Mr. and Mrs. Meagles had a little orphan maid 
whom they called "Tattycoram," for no particular 
reason except that her first name had been Hattie, 
and the name of the man who founded the asylum 
where they found her was "Coram." Tattycoram 
had a very bad temper, so that Mr. Meagles, when 
he saw one of these fits coming on, used to stop 
and say, "Count twenty-five, Tattycoram." And 
Tattycoram would count twenty-five, and by that 
time the fit of temper was over. 

But one day she had an attack that was very 
much worse than usual — so much worse that she 
couldn't wait to count twenty-five, and ran away. 
And it was a long time before they saw Tattycoram 
again. 

At Mr. Meagles's house Arthur met an inventor 
named Doyce, a quiet, straightforward man, 
whom he soon came to like. Doyce had made 
280 



LITTLE DORRIT 

a useful invention and for twelve years had been 
trying to bring it to the notice of the British Gov- 
ernment. But this matter, too, had to go through 
the famous "Circumlocution Office," and so there 
it had stuck just as Arthur's inquiry had done. 

Arthur having chosen no new business as yet, 
before long proposed a partnership between him- 
self and Doyce. The latter agreed readily, and 
the new firm was established. Soon after this 
Doyce went abroad on business, leaving Arthur 
to manage the affairs. 

All might have gone well but for the fame of 
Mr. Merdle. His wealth seemed so enormous, 
and his plans so sure, that many people through- 
out England, just as old Mr. Dorrit had done, put 
their money in his care. Even Pancks, the rent 
collector, did so, and strongly advised Arthur to 
do the same. Convinced by such advice Arthur 
was unhappily led to invest the money of the new 
firm in Merdle's schemes. 

One day soon after, Mr. Merdle, whom every 
one had looked up to and respected, killed himself, 
and then to every one's astonishment it was found 
that his money was all gone, that his schemes were 
all exploded, and that the famous man who had 
dined and wined with the great was simply the 
greatest forger and the greatest thief that had ever 
cheated the gallows. 

But it was too late then. Arthur's firm was ut- 
terly ruined with all the rest. What hurt him most 
281 



TALES FROM DICKENSI 

was the knowledge that by using the firm's money 
he had ruined his honest partner, Doyce. 

In order to set the latter as near right as he could, 
Arthur turned over every cent of his own personal 
fortune to pay as much of the firm's debt as it 
would, keeping nothing of value but his clothes 
and his books. Beside doing this, he wrote out a 
statement, declaring that he, Arthur Clennam, had 
of his own act and against his partner's express 
caution, used the firm's money for this purpose, 
and that he alone, and not Doyce, was to blame. 
He declared also that his own share (if any re- 
mained out of the wreck) should go to his partner, 
and that he himself would work as a mere clerk, 
at as small a salary as he could live on. 

He published this statement at once, unwisely 
no doubt, when all London was so enraged against 
Merdle and glad to have some one on whom to 
vent its madness. In the public anger and excite- 
ment the generosity of his act was lost sight of. A 
few hours later a man who had invested some of 
his money in Arthur's firm, and thus lost it, had 
him arrested for debt, and that night he entered 
the dismal iron gates of the Marshalsea prison, not 
now as a visitor, but as one whom the pitiless bars 
locked in from liberty. 

The turnkey took him up the old familiar stair- 
case and into the old familiar room in which he 
had so often been. And as he sat down in its loneli- 
ness, thinking of the fair, slight form that had 



LITTLE DORRIT 

dwelt in it so long, he turned his face to the wall 
and sobbed aloud, "Oh, my Little Dorrit!" 

Wherever he looked he seemed to see her, and 
just as she herself in a foreign country found her- 
self looking and listening for his step and voice, 
so, too, it was with him. 

In the days that followed he thought of her all 
the while. He was too depressed and too retiring 
and unhappy to mingle with the other prisoners, 
so he kept his own room and made no friends. The 
rest disliked him and said he was proud or sullen. 

A burning, reckless mood soon added its suffer- 
ings to his dread and hatred of the place. The 
thought grew on him that he would in the end 
break his heart and die there. He felt that he 
was being stifled, and at times the longing to be 
free made him believe he must go mad. A week of 
this suffering found him in his bed in the grasp of 
a slow, wasting fever. He felt light-headed and 
delirious, and heard tunes playing that he knew 
were only in his brain. 

One day when he had dragged himself to his 
chair by the window, the door of his room seemed 
to open to a quiet figure, which dropped a mantle 
it wore; then it seemed to be Little Dorrit in her 
old dress, and it seemed first to smile and then to 
burst into tears. 

He roused himself, and all at once he saw that 
it was no dream. She was really there, kneeling 
by him now with her tears falling on his hands 
283 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

and her voice crying, "Oh, my best friend! Don't 
let me see you weep! I am your own poor child 
come back!" 

No one had told her he was ill, for she had just 
returned from Italy. She made the room fresh 
and neat, sewed a white curtain for its window, 
and sent out for grapes, roast chicken and jellies, 
and every good thing. She sat by him all day, 
smoothing his hot pillow or giving him a cooling 
drink. 

Though he had been strangely blind, he knew at 
last that she must have loved him all along. And 
to find her great heart turned to him thus in his 
misfortune made him realize that during all those 
months in the lonely prison he had been loving her, 
too, though he had not known it. 

A feeling of peace came to him. Whenever he 
opened his eyes he saw her at his side — the same 
trusting Little Dorrit that he had always known. 



"all's well that ends well" 

All the while these things were happening, Mrs. 
Clennam and Flintwinch had continued their 
grim partnership. 

Mrs. Clennam at last decided to burn the part 
of the will she had hidden, so that her share in the 
wicked plan could never be found out. Flint- 



LITTLE DORRIT 

winch, however, wishing for his own purposes to 
keep her in his power, deceived her. He cunningly 
put in its place a worthless piece of paper, and this 
Mrs. Clennam burned instead. Flintwinch then 
locked up the real piece in an iron box, with a lot 
of private letters that had been written by the poor 
crazed singer to Mrs. Clennam, begging her for- 
giveness. The box he gave to his brother, who 
took it to Holland with him for safe-keeping. 

But Flintwinch, in this deception, overreached 
himself. 

There was an adventurer in Holland named 
Rigaud, who used to drink and smoke with this 
brother. He was an oily villain, who had been 
in jail in France on suspicion of having murdered 
his wife. He had shaggy dry hair streaked with 
red, and a thick mustache, and when he smiled 
his eyes went close together, his mustache went up 
under his hooked nose, and his nose came down 
over his mustache. Rigaud saw the box, concluded 
it contained something valuable, and made up his 
mind to get it. His chance came when the brother 
of Flintwinch died suddenly one day, and he lost 
no time in making away with the iron box. 

By means of the letters it contained, he soon 
guessed the secret which Mrs. Clennam had been 
for so many years at such pains to conceal, and, 
deciding that by this knowledge he could squeeze 
money out of her, he came to London to find and 
threaten her. 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

But she, believing she had burned the part of 
the will which Rigaud claimed to possess, refused 
to listen to him, until at last, maddened by her re- 
fusals, he searched out the Dorrits. 

He soon discovered that the man who had edu- 
cated the singer (Arthur's real mother) was Fred- 
erick Dorrit, Little Dorrit's dead uncle, and that 
it was Little Dorrit herself, since she was his 
youngest niece, from whom the money was now 
being unjustly kept. 

Rigaud easily found Little Dorrit, for she was 
now in the Marshalsea nursing Arthur, where he 
lay sick, and to her the cunning adventurer sent 
a copy of the paper in a sealed packet, asking her, 
if it was not reclaimed before the prison closed 
that same night, to open and read it herself. 

He then went to the Clennam house, told Mrs. 
Clennam and Flintwinch what he had done and 
demanded money at once as the price of his re- 
claiming the packet before Little Dorrit should 
learn the secret it held. 

At this Flintwinch had to confess what he had 
done, and Mrs. Clennam knew that the fatal paper 
had not been burned, after all. 

The wretched woman, seeing this sharp end to 
all her scheming, was almost distracted. She had 
not walked a step for twelve years, but now her 
excitement and frenzy gave her unnatural strength. 
She rose from her invalid chair and ran with all 
her speed from the house. Old Affery, the servant. 



LITTLE DORRIT 

followed her mistress, wringing her hands as she 
tried vainly to overtake her. 

Mrs. Clennam did not pause till she had reached 
the prison and found Little Dorrit. She told her 
to open the packet at once and to read what it 
contained, and then, kneeling at her feet, she 
promised to restore to her all she had withheld, 
and begged her to forgive and to come back 
with her to tell Rigaud that she already knew the 
secret and that he might do his worst. 

Little Dorrit was greatly moved to see the stern, 
gray-haired woman at her feet. She raised and 
comforted her, assuring her that, come what 
would, Arthur should never learn the truth from 
her lips. This return of good for evil from the 
one she had most injured brought the tears to the 
hard woman's eyes. "God bless you," she said in 
a broken voice. 

Side by side they hastened back to the Clennam 
house, but as they reached the entrance of its dark 
courtyard there came a sudden noise like thunder. 
For one instant they saw the building, with the 
insolent Rigaud waiting smoking in the window; 
then the walls heaved, surged outward, opened and 
fell into pieces. Its great pile of chimneys rocked, 
broke and tumbled on the fragments, and only a 
huge mass of timbers and stone, with a cloud of 
dust hovering over it, marked the spot where it 
had stood. 

The rotten old building, propped up so long, 
287 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

had fallen at last. For years old Afifery had in- 
sisted that the house was haunted. She had often 
heard mysterious rustlings and noises, and in the 
mornings sometimes she would find little heaps 
I of dust on the floors. Curious, crooked cracks 
would appear, too, in the walls, and the doors 
would stick with no apparent reason. These 
things, of course, had been caused by the gradual 
settling of the crazy walls and timbers, which now 
finally had collapsed all at once. 

Frightened, they ran back to the street and there 
Mrs. Clennam's strange strength left her, and she 
fell in a heap upon the pavement. 

She never from that hour was able to speak a 
word or move a finger. She lived for three years 
in a wheel-chair, but she lived — and died — like 
a statue. 

For two days workmen dug industriously in 
the ruins before they found the body of Rigaud, 
with his head smashed to atoms beneath a huge 
beam. 

They dug longer than that for the body of Flint- 
winch, and stopped at last when they came to the 
conclusion that he was not there. By that time, 
however, he had had a chance to get together all 
of the firm's money he could lay his hands on and 
to decamp. He was never seen again in England, 
but travelers claimed to have seen him in Holland, 
where he lived comfortably under the name of 
"Mynheer Von Flyntevynge" — which is, after all, 
288 



LITTLE DORRIT 

about as near as one can come to saying "Flint- 
winch" in Dutch. 

No one grieved greatly over his loss. It v^as 
long before Arthur knew of these events, and Lit- 
tle Dorrit was too happy in nursing him back to 
health to think much about it. 

She was not content with this, either, but wrote 
to Mr. and Mrs. Meagles, who were abroad, of 
the sick man's misfortune. The former went at 
once in search of Doyce and brought him back to 
London, where together they set the firm of 
"Doyce and Clennam" on its feet again and ar- 
ranged to buy Arthur's liberty. They did not tell 
Arthur anything of this, however, in order that 
they might surprise him. 

Mr. Meagles, for Little Dorrlt's sake, tried hard 
to find the fragment of the will which Rigaud had 
kept in the iron box. But it was Tattycoram, the 
little maid with the bad temper, who finally found 
it in a lodging Rigaud had occupied, and brought 
it to Mr. Meagles, praying on her knees that he 
take her back into his service, which, to be sure, he 
was very glad to do. 

Arthur, while he was slowly growing better, had 
thought much of his condition. Though Little 
Dorrit had begged him again and again to take 
her money and use it as his own, he had refused, 
telling her as gently as he could that now that she 
was rich and he a ruined man, this could never be, 
and that, as the time had long gone by when she 
289 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

and the Marshalsea had anything in common, they 
two must soon part. 

One day, however, when he was well enough 
to sit up, Little Dorrit came to his room in the 
prison and told him she had received a very 
great fortune and asked him again if he would 
not take it. 

''Never," he told her. 

"You will not take even half of it?" she asked 
pleadingly. 

"Never, dear Little Dorrit!" he said emphat- 
ically. 

Then, at last, she laid her face on his breast 
crying: 

"I have nothing in the world. I am as poor as 
when I lived here in the Marshalsea. I have just 
found that papa gave all we had to Mr. Merdle 
and it is swept away with the rest. My great for- 
tune now is poverty, because it is all you will take. 
Oh, my dearest and best, are you quite sure you 
will not share my fortune with me now?" 

He had locked her in his arms, and his tears 
were falling on her cheek as she said joyfully: 

"I never was rich before, or proud, or happy. 
I would rather pass my life here in prison with 
you, and work daily for my bread, than to have 
the greatest fortune that ever was told and be the 
greatest lady that ever was honored!" 

But Arthur's prison life was to be short. For 
Mr. Meagles and Doyce burst upon them with all 
290 



LITTLE DORRIT 

the other good news at once. Arthur was free, the 
firm had been reestablished with him at its head, 
and to-morrow the debtors' prison would be only 
a memory. 

Next morning, before they left the Marshalsea 
for ever, Little Dorrit handed Arthur a folded 
paper, and asked him to please her by putting it 
into the fire with his own hand. 

"Is it a charm?" he asked. 

*'It is anything you like best," she answered, 
standing on tiptoe to kiss him. "Only say 'I love 
you' as you do it!" 

He said it, and the paper burned away. And 
so the will that had been the cause of so much pain 
and wrong was turned to ashes. Little Dorrit kept 
the promise she had made, and Arthur never 
learned of the sin of which the woman he had 
always called his mother had been guilty. 

Then, when all good-bys had been said, they 
walked together to the very same church where 
Little Dorrit had slept on the cushions the night 
she had been locked out of the Marshalsea, and 
there she and Arthur were married. Doyce gave 
the bride away. 

And among the many who came to witness the 
wedding were not only Pancks, and Maggie, the 
half-witted woman, but even a group of Little 
Dorrit's old turnkey friends from the prison — 
among whom was the disconsolate Chivery, who 
had so long solaced himself by composing epitaphs 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

for his own tombstone, and who went home to 
meditate over his last inscription: 



STRANGER ! Respect the Tomb of 

JOHN CHIVERY, JUNIOR 

Who Died at an Advanced Age not Necessary to 

Mention. He Encountered His Rival and 

Felt Inclined 

To Have a Round with Him; 

But, for the Sake of the Loved One, Conquered 

Those Feelings of Bitterness and Became 

MAGNANIMOUS 



LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF MARTIN 
CHUZZLEWIT 

Published 1843- 1844 

Scene: London, Neighboring Towns, New York and the 

Mississippi Valley 
Time: 1842 

CHARACTERS 

Martin Chnzzlewit A young gentleman 

Chuzzlewit His grandfather. A rich old man 

Mary Graham Old Chuzzlewit's nurse and secretary 

Jonas His grasping nephew 

Chuffey An aged clerk to Jonas's father 

Pecksniff An architect and hypocrite 

A distant relative of Old Chuzzlewit's 

Charity His daughter 

Mercy His daughter. Later, Jonas's wife 

Tom Pinch A charity pupil of Pecksniff's 

Ruth His sister 

John Westlock One of Pecksniff's former pupils 

Mark Tapley An assistant at a village inn 

Later, Martin's comrade in the United States 

Bevan An American 

Mrs. Todgers The proprietress of a London board- 
ing-house 

Montague Tigg A penniless adventurer 

Later known as "Tigg Montague," and president of the 
Anglo-Bengalee Company 

"Sairey" Gamp A nurse 

"Mrs. Harris" An imaginary friend of Sairey Gamp's 

Nadgett A police spy 

293 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT 



HOW MARTIN LEFT ENGLAND 

Martin Chuzzlewit was the grandson of an old 
man who, from being poor, became so rich that 
he found not only that people bowed low and flat- 
tered him, but that many of his relatives were 
trying by every trick to get some of his money. 

The old man was naturally suspicious and ob- 
stinate, and when he saw this he began to distrust 
everybody and to think the whole world selfish and 
deceitful. He had loved most of all his grandson, 
Martin, but at length his heart became hardened 
to him also. 

This was partly Martin's own fault, for he was 
somewhat selfish, but he had, nevertheless, a great 
deal of good in him. And perhaps his selfishness 
was partly his grandfather's fault, too, because the 
latter had brought him up to believe he would in- 
herit all his money and would sometime be very 
rich. 

At last, ill and grown suspicious of every one 
he met, old Chuzzlewit gave a home to a beautiful 
orphan girl named Mary Graham, and kept her 
near him as his nurse and secretary. In order. that 
she might not have any selfish interest in being 
295 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

kind to him, he took an oath in her presence that 
he would not leave her a cent when he died. He 
paid her monthly wages and it was agreed that 
there should be no affection shown between them. 

In spite of his seeming harshness, Mary knew 
his heart was naturally kind, and she soon loved 
him as a father. And he, softened by her sym- 
pathy, came in spite of himself to love her as a 
daughter. 

It was not long before young Martin, too, had 
fallen very deeply in love with Mary. He con- 
cluded too hastily, however, that his grandfather 
would not approve of his marrying her, and told 
the old man his intentions in such a fiery way that 
Chuzzlewit resented it. 

The old man accused Martin of a selfish attempt 
to steal from him Mary's care, and at this, Martin, 
whose temper was as quick as his grandfather's 
flew to anger. They quarreled and Martin left 
him, declaring he would henceforth make his own 
way until he was able to claim Mary for his wife. 

While he was wondering what he should do, 
Martin saw in a newspaper the advertisement of 
a Mr. Pecksniff, an architect, living near Salis- 
bury, not many miles from London, who wished a 
pupil to board and teach. An architect was what 
Martin wanted to be, and he answered the adver- 
tisement at once and accepted Pecksniff's terms. 

Now, to tell the truth, Martin had another rea- 
son for this. Pecksniff was his grandfather's 
296 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT 

cousin, and he knew the old man thought him the 
worst hypocrite of all his relatives, and disliked 
him accordingly. And Martin was so angry with 
his grandfather that he went to Pecksniff's partly 
to vex him. 

Pecksniff was just the man old Chuzzlewit 
thought him. He was a smooth, sleek hypocrite, 
with an oily manner. He had heavy eyelids and a 
wide, whiskerless throat, and when he talked he 
fairly oozed virtuous sayings, for which people 
deemed him a most moral and upright man. He 
was a widower with two daughters. Charity and 
Mercy, the older of whom had a very bitter tem- 
per, which made it hard for the few students as 
long as they stayed there. 

After Pecksniff had once got a pupil's money 
in advance, he made no pretense of teaching him. 
He kept him drawing designs for buildings, and 
that was all. If any of the designs were good, he 
said nothing to the pupil, but sold them as his 
own, and pocketed the money. His pupils soon 
saw through him and none of them had ever stayed 
long except one. 

This one was named Tom Pinch. He had been 
poor and Mr. Pecksniff had pretended to take him 
in at a reduced rate. But really Pinch paid as 
much as the others, beside being a clever fellow 
who made himself useful in a thousand ways. He 
was a musician, too, and played the organ in the 
village church, which was a credit to Pecksniff. 
297 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

With all this, Pinch was a generous, open- 
hearted lad, who believed every one honest and 
true, and he was so grateful to Pecksniff (whose 
hypocrisy he never imagined) that he was always 
singing his praises everywhere. In return for all 
this, Pecksniff treated him with contempt and 
made him quite like a servant. 

Tom Pinch, however, was a favorite with every 
one else. He had a sister Ruth who loved him 
dearly, but he seldom saw her, for she was a gov- 
erness in the house of a brass and iron founder, 
who did not like her to have company. One of 
Tom's greatest friends had been a pupil named 
John Westlock, who in vain had tried to open the 
other's eyes to Pecksniff's real character. When 
Westlock came into his money he had left and 
gone to live in London, and it was to take his va- 
cant place that the new pupil Martin was now 
coming. 

Another friend of Pinch's was Mark Tapley, a 
rakish, good-humored fellow, whose one ambition 
was to find a position so uncomfortable and dismal 
that he would get some credit for being jolly in it. 
Tapley was an assistant at The Blue Dragon, the 
village inn, whose plump, rosy landlady was so 
fond of him that he might have married her if 
he had chosen to. But, as Tapley said, there was 
no credit in being jolly where he was so com- 
fortable, so he left The Blue Dragon and went ofif, 
too, to London. 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT 

With neither Westlock nor Mark Tapley there 
Tom Pinch was lonely and welcomed the arrival 
of Martin, with whom he soon made friends. Mr. 
Pecksniff folded his new pupil to his breast, shed 
a crocodile tear and set him to work designing a 
grammar-school. 

Old Chuzzlewit soon heard where Martin his 
grandson was, and wrote to Pecksniff asking him 
to meet him in London. Pecksniff was so anxious 
to curry favor with the rich old man that, taking 
his daughters with him, he left at once for London, 
where they put up at a boarding-house kept by a 
Mrs. Todgers, while Pecksniff awaited the arrival 
of old Chuzzlewit. 

Mrs. Todgers's house smelled of cabbage and 
greens and mice, and Mrs. Todgers herself was 
bony and wore a row of curls on the front of her 
head like little barrels of flour. But a number of 
young men boarded there, and Charity and Mercy 
enjoyed themselves very much. 

One whom they met on this trip to London was 
a remote relative of theirs, a nephew of old 
Chuzzlewit's, named Jonas. Jonas's father was 
eighty years old and a miser, and the son, too, was 
so mean and grasping that he often used to wish 
his father were dead so he would have his money. 

The old father, indeed, would have had no 

friend in his own house but for an old clerk, Chuf- 

fey, who had been his schoolmate in boyhood aiid 

had always lived with him. Chuffey was as old 

299 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

and dusty and rusty as if he had been put away 
and forgotten fifty years before and some one had 
just found him in a lumber closet. But in his own 
way Chufifey loved his master. 

Jonas called on the two Pecksniff daughters, 
and Charity, the elder, determined to marry him. 
Jonas, however, had his own opinion, and made up 
his mind to marry Mercy, her younger sister. 

Before long old Chuzzlewit reached London, 
and when Pecksnifif called he told him his grand- 
son, Martin, was an ingrate, who had left his pro- 
tection, and asked the architect not to harbor him. 
Pecksnifif, who worshiped the other's money and 
would have betrayed his best friend for old Chuz- 
zlewit's favor, returned home instantly, heaped 
harsh names upon Martin and ordered him to 
leave his house at once. 

Martin guessed what had caused Pecksnifif to 
change his mind so suddenly, and with hearty con- 
tempt for his truckling action, he left that very 
hour in the rain, though he had only a single silver 
piece in his pocket. Tom Pinch, in great grief for 
his trouble, ran after him with a book as a parting 
gift, and between its leaves Martin found another 
silver piece — all Tom had. 

Most of the way to London Martin walked. 
Once there he took a cheap lodging, and tried to 
find some vessel on which he could work his pass- 
age to America, for there, as he walked, he had 
made up his mind to go. But he found no such 
300 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT 

opportunity. His money gone, he pawned first 
his watch and then his other belongings, one by 
one, until he had nothing left, and was even in 
distress for food. 

Yet his pride was strong, and he gave what was 
almost his last coin to escape the attentions of one 
Montague Tigg, a dirty, jaunty, bold, mean, swag- 
gering, slinking vagabond of the shabby-genteel 
sort, whom he recognized as one who had more 
than once tried to squeeze money out of his grand- 
father. 

At last, when he was almost in despair, a sur- 
prise came in the shape of an envelop addressed 
to himself, containing no letter, but a bank-note 
for a generous amount. There was no clue what- 
ever to the sender, but the sum was enough to pay 
his passage and he determined therefore to sail 
next day. 

While he was still wondering at this good luck, 
Martin chanced to come upon Mark Tapley, the 
old assistant at The Blue Dragon Inn. Tapley had 
found London too pleasant a place to be jolly in 
with any credit, and, as he had heard America 
was a very dismal place, he proposed to go with 
Martin. 

As it happened, Tapley knew that Mary Gra- 
ham was then in London, for he had seen old 
Chuzzlewit going into his house. When Martin 
learned this he sent a letter to her by Tapley, and 
she met him next morning in a little park near by. 
301 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

There he told her of his leaving Pecksniff's and 
of his coming voyage. 

She was very sorrowful over his departure, but 
he cheered her by telling her he would soon return, 
well and prosperous, for her. She told him that 
Pecksniff seemed somehow to have made his 
grandfather trust him, and that by his advice they 
were both to move to The Blue Dragon Inn, near 
his house. Martin told her of Pecksniff's true char- 
acter, warned her against him, and begged her to 
trust in Tom Pinch as a true friend. So they part- 
ed, pledging each other their love whatever befell. 

Before Martin left next day Mary sent him a 
diamond ring, which he thought his grandfather 
had given her, but for which in reality she had 
paid all her savings, so that he should have with 
him something of value to sell if he be in want. 

So Martin and Mark Tapley took ship for 
America, and Mary Graham and old Chuzzlewit 
went to live at The Blue Dragon, to the huge satis- 
faction of the oily Pecksniff, who thought now he 
could easily get the rich old man under his thumb. 

II 

PECKSNIFF AND OLD CHUZZLEWIT 

After his first burst of anger at Martin's leaving 
him, old Chuzzlewit, to Mary's eyes, seemed to 
grow gradually a different man. He appeared 

302 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT 

more old and stooped and deaf, and took little 
interest in anything. 

After they came to The Blue Dragon Inn, Peck- 
sniff threw himself constantly in old Chuzzlewit's 
way, flattering and smooth, and before long Mary 
saw, to her grief, that the old man was coming 
more and more under the other's influence. When 
she was alone with him he seemed more his former 
eager self; but let Pecksniff appear and the strange 
dull look would come and he would seem only 
anxious to ask his advice about the smallest mat- 
ters. 

Little wonder Pecksniff concluded he could 
wind his victim around his finger. At length he 
proposed that old Chuzzlewit and Mary leave The 
Blue Dragon, where he said he felt sure they were 
not comfortable, and come and live with him 
under his own roof. To Mary's dismay, the old 
man consented, and they were soon settled in the 
architect's house. 

The only thing that now seemed to stand in 
Pecksniff's way was Mary, and he decided that, as 
old Chuzzlewit was fond of her, he himself would 
marry her. Qnce married to her, he reasoned, with 
both of them to influence old Chuzzlewit, it would 
be easy to do what they pleased with him and with 
his money, too. With this end in view, he began to 
persecute poor Mary with his attentions, squeez- 
ing her hand and throwing kisses to her when no 
one else was looking. 

303 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Charity, Pecksniffs older daughter, was not 
blind to his plan. She was in a sour temper because 
the miserly Jonas, who came from London often 
now to see them, had begun to make love to Mercy 
instead of to her. To see her father now paying 
so much attention to Mary Graham made Charity 
angry, and she left her father's house and went to 
live in London at Mrs. Todgers's boarding-house, 
where she set her cap to catch a young man, wheth- 
er he wanted to be caught or not. As for Mercy, 
the younger sister, she was leading Jonas such a 
dance that she thought very little of her father's 
schemes. 

His vinegary daughter Charity out of the way, 
Pecksniff began to persecute Mary more and more. 
One day he made her so angry by holding her 
hand and kissing it that she threatened to complain 
to old Chuzzlewit. Pecksniff told her that if she 
did he would use all his influence to turn the old 
man still more against his grandson. The poor girl 
was in great trouble then, for she loved Martin 
and feared Pecksniff's growing power with old 
Chuzzlewit. And seeing that this threat fright- 
ened her, Pecksniff continued his annoyances. 

According to Martin's parting advice, Mary 
had learned to like and to trust Tom Pinch, in 
spite of his mistaken worship of Pecksniff. One 
day while Tom was practising the organ at the 
church she came to him and, confiding in him, 
told all that she had endured. 
304 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT 

In his simple-heartedness he had admired and 
looked up to Pecksniff all his life, but this evidence 
opened Tom Pinch's eyes. At last he saw the 
pompous hypocrite in his true light. He agreed 
with her that the architect was a scoundrel, and 
comforted her, and asked her always to trust in 
his own friendship. 

Unluckily while they talked there was an eaves- 
dropper near. It was Pecksniff himself. He had 
gone into the church to rest, and lying down in 
one of the high-back pews, had gone to sleep, and 
now the voices of Tom and Mary had awakened 
him. He listened and waited till they had both 
gone ; then he stole out and went home by a round- 
about way. 

That night he went to old Chuzzlewit and, pre- 
tending to shed tears of sorrow, told him he had 
overheard Tom Pinch, the pauper pupil, whom he 
had trusted and befriended, making love to Mary, 
the old man's ward, in the church. Making a great 
show of his respect and regard for old Chuzzlewit, 
he told him this villain should not remain under 
his roof one night longer. Then he called in Tom 
Pinch and, abusing and insulting him in Chuzzle- 
wit's presence, sent him away as he had sent away 
Martin. 

Tom was feeling so bad over his loss of faith 

in his idol, Pecksniff, that he did not greatly mind 

this last blow. In fact, he had about concluded 

he could not live any longer with such a wicked 

30s 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

hypocrite anyway. He packed his things and set 
off for London, feeling almost as if the world had 
come to an end. 

Once there, however, he plucked up spirit and 
felt better. First of all he looked up Westlock, 
the former pupil of Pecksniff's, and found him the 
same friendly, clever fellow now in his riches as 
he was of old. Westlock was glad Tom had at 
last found his master out, and began at once to 
plan for his future. Next Tom went to see his sis- 
ter Ruth at the house where she was governess. 

He arrived there at a fortunate time, for the 
vulgar brass and iron founder who had hired her 
to try to teach his spoiled little daughter was at 
that moment scolding Ruth harshly for what was 
not her fault at all. 

Tom had been gaining a spirit of his own since 
he had parted from Pecksniff, and, now, at sight 
of his gentle little sister's tears, his honest indig- 
nation rose. He gave her unjust employer a lecture 
that left him much astonished, and then, drawing 
Ruth's arm through his, he led her from the house 
for ever. 

It was not long before each had told the other 
all that had happened. Tom decided that they 
should part no more, and they set out together to 
find a lodging. They took some rooms in a quiet 
neighborhood and settled down together till Tom 
could find something to do. 

Ruth was a neat housekeeper, but she had to 
306 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT 

learn to cook, and they had great fun over their 
first meal. While she was making her first beef- 
steak pudding Westlock called with a great piece 
of news. An agent had come to him asking him 
to offer to his friend Tom Pinch a position as a 
librarian at a good salary. Who the employer was 
Tom was not to know. Here was a rare mystery, 
and Ruth in her mingled excitement and pie-mak- 
ing looked so sweet and charming that then and 
there Westlock fell in love with her. 

Tom and he went at once to the agent who had 
made this extraordinary offer, and he took them 
to an unoccupied house, to a dusty room whose 
floor was covered all over with books. Tom, he 
said, was to arrange and make a list of these. Then 
he gave him the key, told him to come to him each 
week for his salary, and disappeared. 

Still wondering, the two friends went back to- 
gether, for of course Westlock had to taste the 
beefsteak pudding. Ruth had supper waiting for 
them. Every minute Westlock thought she grew 
more lovely, and as he walked home he knew he 
was in love at last. 

Now, the mystery of Tom's library, and of the 
bank-note that Martin had received when his 
money was all gone, w^ould have been a very joy- 
ful one to them both if they could have guessed 
it. Old Chuzzlewit, whom they believed so harsh, 
and whom the wily Pecksniff thought he had got 
under his thumb, was a very deep and knowing 
307 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

old man indeed. He had never ceased to love 
Martin, his grandson, though he had misunder- 
stood him at first, but he had seen very plainly 
that the lad was growing selfish and he wished to 
save him from this. He had longed for nothing 
more than that Martin and Mary should marry, 
but he wished to try their love for each other as 
well as Martin's affection for him. It was to test 
Pecksniff that old Chuzzlewit had asked the arch- 
itect to send Martin from his house, and when he 
saw that Pecksniff was fawning hound enough to 
do it, he determined to punish him in the end. It 
was old Chuzzlewit who had found where Martin 
lodged in London, and had sent him the bank-note. 
And, won by Tom Pinch's goodness and honor, it 
was he who now, secretly, made him this position. 
If Pecksniff had guessed all this, he would prob- 
ably have had a stroke of apoplexy. 



Ill 

JONAS GETS RID OF AN ENEMY 

Jonas, meanwhile, in his miserly soul, had been 
wishing that his old father would hurry and die. 
He wanted the money and he wanted to marry 
Mercy Pecksniff, and to do both he preferred the 
old man out of his way. He thought of this and 
wished it so long that at last he began to think of 
helping the matter along. 
308 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT 

His father kept in a drawer some cough loz- 
enges which he constantly used. Jonas at last 
bought some poison from a dissipated man who 
needed money badly, and made some lozenges like 
them. These he put in his father's drawer instead 
of the others. 

His father, however, and Chuffey, the old clerk, 
noticed that the lozenges were not the same, and 
they guessed what Jonas had done. The shock of 
discovering that his own son had tried to murder 
him proved the old man's death. He made Chuf- 
fey promise not to betray Jonas, then fell in a fit 
and never spoke again. 

Jonas naturally thought the poison had done the 
work, and was at first in dreadful fear of discov- 
ery. He made a fine funeral, with four-horse 
coaches, velvet trappings and silver plate, so that 
people would think he loved his father, and not 
till the body was buried did he forget his dread. 

Chuffey, however, seemed to go almost daft. 
He would walk and cry and wring his hands and 
talk so strangely about his master's death that 
Jonas feared he would cause suspicion that all was 
not right. So he hired a nurse to come and keep 
him in his room. 

This nurse went by the name of "Sairey" Gamp. 
She was a fat old woman, with a red face, a husky 
voice and a moist eye, which often turned up so 
as to show only the white. Wherever she went she 
carried a faded umbrella with a round white patch 
309 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

on top, and she always smelled of whisky. Mrs. 
Gamp was fond of talking of a certain "Mrs. 
Harris," whom she spoke of as a dear friend, but 
whom nobody else had ever seen. When she want- 
ed to say something nice of herself she would put 
it in the mouth of Mrs. Harris. She was always 
quoting, "I says to Mrs. Harris," or "Mrs. Harris 
says to me." People used to say there was no such 
person at all, but this never failed to make Mrs. 
Gamp very angry. 

She was a cruel nurse, and her way of making 
a sick man swallow a dose of medicine was by 
choking him till he gasped and then putting the 
spoon down his throat. 

Such was the guardian Jonas chose to keep old 
Chuffey quiet in London, while he himself courted 
Pecksniff's daughter at her father's house. And it 
was not very long before he proposed to Mercy 
and they were married. 

If Pecksniff had searched London he could not 
have found a worse man for his daughter to marry. 
But Pecksniff cared for nothing but money, and, 
as Jonas was now rich, he pretended great love for 
his new son-in-law and went around with his hands 
clasped and his eyes lifted to Heaven in pious 
thankfulness. As for Jonas, he began to treat 
Mercy brutally and soon she was miserable. 

Jonas, meanwhile, had fallen in with a very 
prosperous individual. This was none other than 
Montague Tigg, the bold, jaunty, swaggering, 
310 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT 

shabby-genteel Tigg, who had once been glad to 
beg a coin from any one he knew. Now he had 
changed in both appearance and name. His face 
was covered with glossy black whiskers, his clothes 
were the costliest and his jewelry the most ex- 
pensive. He was known now as "Mr. Tigg Mon- 
tague," and was president of the great "Anglo- 
Bengalee Company." 

The Anglo-Bengalee Company was a business 
which pretended to insure people's lives. It had 
fine offices with new furniture, new paper and a 
big brass plate on the door. It looked most solid 
and respectable, but it was really a trap, for Tigg 
and its other officers were only waiting until they 
had taken in enough money to run away with it to 
a foreign country. Jonas, sharp as he was, was de- 
ceived into believing it an honest enterprise. He 
came there to get his wife's life insured, and so he 
met Tigg. 

Tigg, however, knowing Jonas of old, knew he 
had a great deal of money of his own, and thought, 
too, that he might influence Mr. Pecksniff, now 
his father-in-law. Tigg flattered Jonas according- 
ly, telling him what a sharp man he was and of- 
fered to make him a director in the company. He 
assured Jonas that there would be enormous profits 
and showed him how, by putting his own money 
into it, he could cheat other people out of much 
more. This idea tickled Jonas and he agreed. 

Having got thus far, Tigg hired a spy named 
311 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Nadgett to see if he could discover whether Jonas 
had ever committed any crime, the knowledge of 
which would put him in their power. Nadgett 
began his work, got on the right side of Sairey 
Gamp, the nurse, found out that old Chuffey was 
locked up for fear he might talk, and soon had a 
suspicion that Jonas had been concerned in his 
father's death. 

As an experiment Tigg boldly charged him 
with it one day, and knew in an instant, by the way 
Jonas's face whitened with fear, that he had stum- 
bled on the truth. He then told Jonas he not only 
must put into the company more of his own money, 
but must persuade Pecksniff to do likewise. 

Jonas dared not now refuse. He thought of es- 
caping to some other country, but wherever he 
turned he found Tigg's spies watching, and at last, 
he determined on a second murder to hide the first 
— the murder of Tigg, who knew his secret. 

Tigg did not forget his plan to ensnare Peck- 
sniff. To do this he took Jonas by carriage from 
London to Salisbury and, mile by mile, as they 
sped, the latter laid his plans. Near their destina- 
tion accident came near assisting him. In the storm 
the carriage was upset and Tigg was thrown under 
the horses' feet. Jonas lashed the struggling horses, 
hoping they would trample and kill his compan- 
ion, but the driver pulled him out just in time. 

They finally reached The Blue Dragon Inn, and 
there, the next day, Jonas brought Pecksniff to 
312 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT 

dine with Tigg, and the latter told the architect 
all about his wonderful company. Though Peck- 
sniff pretended he took the idea as a joke, yet the 
thought of cheating other people for big profits 
was very attractive to him. Before the evening 
was over he had fallen into the trap and had 
promised next day to give Tigg his money. 

Jonas, his part of the bargain finished, hurried 
back to London. There, after telling Mercy not 
to disturb him, as he expected to sleep all next day, 
he locked himself into his room. When it was dark 
he dressed himself in a rough suit that he had pre- 
pared for disguise, let himself out by a rear way 
and took the stage back again to the village where 
he had left Tigg with Pecksniff. 

He lay in wait in a wood through which Tigg 
passed after his last call on the architect, and there 
he killed him with a club. Then he went swiftly 
back to London and let himself into his room 
again, thinking no one had noticed his absence. 

But there had been an eye at the shutter of the 
window in the house opposite that did not fail 
to observe Jonas when he went and when he came. 
And this eye belonged to Nadgett, the spy. 

IV 

WHAT CAME OF MARTIN'S TRIP TO AMERICA 

While these things were occurring, much had 

313 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

happened to Martin and Mark Tapley far away 
in America. 

The sailing vessel on which they crossed was 
crowded and dirty, and in order to save their 
money they had taken passage in the steerage. For 
a long time Martin was very seasick, and even 
when he grew better he was so ashamed at having 
to travel in the worst and cheapest part of the 
vessel that he would not go on deck. 

But Tapley had none of this false pride. He 
made friends with all, helped every one he could 
and soon became such a general favorite that (as 
he thought sadly) he was having much too good 
a time for him to be jolly with any credit. 

The long voyage of so many weeks came to an 
end at last, and they reached New York. They 
found it a strange place indeed, and met many 
strange characters in it. Only one they met pleased 
them: a gentleman named Bevan, and from him 
they got much information and advice. There 
seemed, however, to be little opening for an archi- 
tect in New York, and Martin at length decided 
to go West and settle in some newer region. 

In the western town where they left the train 
they found a land agent who was selling lots in 
a new settlement, on the Mississippi River, called 
Eden. To buy their railway tickets Martin had 
already sold the ring Mary Graham had given 
him, and he had just enough to purchase a tract of 
land in Eden and to pay their fare there. 
314 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWir 

Martin looked at the agent's splendid plans 
of the new town, showing wharves, churches and 
public buildings, and thought it a capital place 
for a young architect; so they closed the bargain 
without more ado and took the next steamer down 
the desolate Mississippi. 

A terrible disappointment awaited them when 
they found what Eden really was — a handful of 
rotting log cabins set in a swamp. The wharves 
and public buildings existed only on the agent's 
map with which he had so cruelly cheated them. 
There were only a few wan men alive there — the 
rest had succumbed to the sickly hot vapor that 
rose from the swamp and hung in the air. At the 
sight of what they had come to, Martin lay down 
and wept in very despair. But for his comrade's 
cheerfulness he would have wholly given up hope. 

Next morning Martin found himself in the grip 
of the deadly fever with which the place reeked, 
and for many days thereafter he lay helpless and 
burning, nursed like a child by the faithful Mark 
Tapley. When he had begun to recover it came 
the other's turn to fall ill and Martin took his 
place at nursing. 

Through all Tapley never complained. At last 
he found himself in circumstances where to be 
jolly was really a credit to anybody. He always in- 
sisted that he was in great spirits, and when he was 
weakest and could not speak he wrote "jolly'.' on 
a slate for Martin to see. 

315 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Watching beside his friend day by day, Martin 
came to know himself truly and to see his own 
selfishness. As he nursed Tapley to health again 
he determined to root it out of his nature and to 
return to England a nobler man. He began to 
think not of what he had sacrificed for Mary, but 
of what she would have sacrificed for him, and 
to wish with all his heart that he had not parted 
from his grandfather in anger. And even before 
Tapley was able to sit up Martin had determined 
to return as soon as possible to England. 

He laid aside his pride and wrote to Bevan, who 
had befriended them in New York, to borrow 
money enough to bring them both to that city. 
Once there, Tapley found a position as cook in 
the same ship that had brought them from Eng- 
land and his wages proved sufficient to pay for 
Martin's passage. 

So Martin started back to the home he had 
parted from a year before, poorer than he had 
left it, but at heart a better and a sounder man. His 
false pride was gone now. He mingled with others 
and helped them, and by the time they landed 
he was as popular a passenger as Mark Tapley was 
a cook. 

Almost the first man they saw on landing, 
curiously enough, was the oily Pecksniff. They 
saw him escorted along the street, pointed out by 
the crowds as ''the great architect." On that day 
the corner stone of a splendid public building was 
316 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT 

to be laid, and Pecksniff's design for this structure 
had taken the prize. The two comrades went with 
the crowd to hear Pecksniff's speech, and looking 
over a gentleman's shoulder at a picture of the 
building as it was to look, Martin saw that it was 
the very grammar school he himself had designed 
when he had first come to Pecksniff's. The old 
rascal had stolen the plans! 

Martin was angry, of course, but there was no 
help for it, and besides he had other things to 
think of. Mary Graham, to be sure, was his first 
thought, and he and Tapley set out at once for The 
Blue Dragon to learn the latest news. 

The rosy landlady laughed and cried together 
to see them and Mark Tapley kissed her so many 
times that she was quite out of breath. She cooked 
the finest dinner in the world for them and told 
them all she knew about their friends: how Tom 
Pinch had been sent away, and how every one 
said that Pecksniff intended to marry Mary. This 
news made Martin grind his teeth, and it would 
have been unlucky for the architect if he had been 
near at that moment. 

Martin first sent Tapley with a note addressed 
to his grandfather, but Pecksniff, who came to the 
door, tore up the letter before the bearer's face. 
Mark told Martin of this, and together they forced 
themselves into the house, and into the room where 
old Chuzzlewit sat, with Pecksniff beside him, and 
Mary standing behind his chair. 
317 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Martin's grandfather hardly looked at him, 
keeping his eyes on Pecksniff's face, as though he 
depended on him even for his thoughts. Martin, 
seeing this, was almost hopeless, but he did as he 
had determined, and in a few manly words begged 
old Chuzzlewit's pardon for his own haste and 
temper, and asked him to take him back to his 
favor. While he talked, Mary had hidden her 
face in her hands and was weeping, for she be- 
lieved his grandfather so wholly in Pecksniff's 
power that she had no hope for Martin. 

Pecksniff was in rare good humor, for it was 
this very day that he had turned his money over 
to Tigg to make a fortune for him in the great 
Anglo-Bengalee Company. Now, rejoicing in his 
opportunity, he took it upon himself to answer. 
He called Martin a shameless, cowardly vagabond 
and ordered him from the door. Then he gave 
his arm to the old man and led him out of the 
room. 

Martin clasped Mary for a moment in his arms 
as he kissed her and told her to keep up heart. 
Then he left the house and set out with Mark 
Tapley for London. 



OLD CHUZZLEWIT S PLOT SUCCEEDS 

Where was the guilty Jonas meanwhile? Shiv- 
ering at every sound, listening for the news that 
318 



MARTIN CHUZ2LEWIT 

Tigg's body had been found in the wood, wonder- 
ing if by any chance the crime might be laid on 
him. 

Already fate was weaving a net about his feet. 
The man from whom he had bought the poison 
to kill his father had fallen very ill, and in his ill- 
ness had repented of the part he had played. He 
had confessed to Westlock, whom, before he had 
fallen into wicked company, he had once known. 
Westlock sent for old Chuzzlewit, and he, too, was 
told the story of the purchased poison. Then to- 
gether the three went to Jonas's house and brought 
him face to face with his accuser. 

Confronted with their evidence Jonas gave him- 
self up for lost, but old Chuffey, whom he had so 
abused, escaped the watchful eye of Sairey Gamp 
and entered just in time to keep his promise to his 
dead master and to clear Jonas, the son. He told 
them how it had really happened: How Jonas 
had intended to kill his father but how the latter's 
death had been due, not to the poison which he had 
never taken, but to the knowledge of his son's 
wickedness. 

Jonas, in the reaction from his fear, laughed 
aloud, and was abusively ordering them to leave, 
when the door opened and the color suddenly left 
his cheeks. Policemen stood there, and at their 
head was Nadgett, the spy. 

In another moment there were handcuffs on 
his wrists and he knew not only that the murder 
319 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

of Tigg had been discovered, but that every action 
of his own on that fatal night had been traced 
and that he v^as surely doomed to die on the gal- 
lows. 

When he realized that he was lost he fell to the 
floor in pitiable fear. They put him in a wagon 
to take him to jail, but when they arrived there 
they found him motionless in his seat. He had 
swallowed some of his own poison which he car- 
ried in his pocket, and was as dead as any hang- 
man could have made him. 

Old Chuzzlewit had yet another purpose to 
carry out before he left London, and for this pur- 
pose he asked Westlock to meet him in his rooms 
at a certain time next day. He sent for Tom Pinch 
and his sister Ruth, for his grandson Martin, and 
Mark Tapley, and last, but not least, for Pecksniff 
himself, all to meet him there at the same hour. 

All save Pecksniff arrived together, and greatly 
astonished most of them were, you may be sure, 
to see old Chuzzlewit so changed. For now the 
dull, bent look had vanished. His eyes were 
bright, his form erect and every feature eager and 
full of purpose. Even Mary Graham scarcely 
knew what to make of it. 

As they sat wondering and waiting for old 
Chuzzlewit to speak, Pecksniff came hurriedly in, 
to start back as if at a shock of electricity. But 
he recovered himself, and clasped his hands with 
a look of pious joy to see the old man safe and 
320 



MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT 

well. Then he looked around him and shook his 
head. 

"Oh, vermin! Oh, bloodsuckers!" he said. 
"Horde of unnatural plunderers and robbers! Be- 
gone! Leave him and do not stay in a spot hal- 
lowed by the gray hairs of this patriarchal gentle- 
man!" 

He advanced with outstretched arms, but he had 
not seen how tightly old Chuzzlewit's hand clasped 
the walking-stick he held. The latter, in one great 
burst of indignation, rose up, and with a single 
blow, stretched him on the ground. Mark Tapley 
dragged him into a corner and propped him 
against the wall, and in this ridiculous position, 
cringing, and with his assurance all gone, Peck- 
sniff listened, as did they all, to the old man's story. 

He told the assembled company how the curse 
of selfishness had seemed to him always to rest 
upon his family. How he had misunderstood Mar- 
tin, his best loved grandson, and how he had seen 
Pecksnifif doing his best to add to this bad feel- 
ing. He beckoned Martin to him and put Mary's 
hand in his, as he told how he had tested them 
both and had at last resolved to see to what a 
length the hypocrisy of Pecksniff would lead him- 
How to this end he had pretended feebleness of 
mind and had planned and plotted finally to ex- 
pose Pecksniff and set all right. 

When he had finished the door was opened and 
Pecksnifif, looking all shrunken and frowsy and 
321 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

yellow, passed out, never to enter again into the 
lives of any of them. 

There was a great and joyful gathering that 
night, when all these, so strangely united, took din- 
ner together. Martin sat beside Mary, while West- 
lock walked home with Ruth, and before they 
reached there she had promised to be his wife. 

Martin and Mary were married soon, and old 
Chuzzlewit made Martin his heir. He also gave 
a home to poor Mercy, the wife of the dead Jonas. 
Tom Pinch lived a long and happy life in the home 
which Westlock made for Ruth, where he had a 
fine organ on which he played every day. Mark 
Tapley, of course, married the rosy landlady of 
The Blue Dragon, and settled down at the inn, 
which he renamed The Jolly Tapley. 

Charity Pecksniff succeeded in ensnaring her 
young man at last. The day they were to be mar- 
ried, however, he did not come to the church, but 
ran ofif to Van Diemen's Land, and she lived and 
died a vinegary, shrewish old maid. 

As for Pecksniff himself, having lost all his 
money in the Anglo-Bengalee Company (which, 
of course, went to pieces on Tigg's death), he sank 
lower and lower, till at last, a drunken, squalid 
old man, he eked out a miserable existence writ- 
ing whining begging letters to the very people 
whom he had once labored so hard to make un- 
happy. 



Z'22. 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 

Published 1864- 1865 

'Scene: London and Neighboring Towns 
Time: i860 

CHARACTERS 

Mr. Harmon A rich dust collector 

Mr. Boffin Foreman of the dust business and 

heir to the Harmon fortune 
Known as "The Golden Dustman" 

Mrs. Boffin His wife 

John Harmon Mr. Harmon's son 

Later Mr. Boffin's secretary, under the name of 
"John Rokesmith" 

Mr. Veneering A rich man with social and political 

ambitions 

Mr. Wilfer A clerk in Mr. Veneering's office 

Bella His daughter 

Silas Wegg A one-legged ballad seller 

"Rogue" Riderhood A riverman of bad reputation 

Later a lock tender 

Hexam A riverman 

Charley His son 

Lizzie His daughter 

"Jenny Wren" A crippled friend of Lizzie's, known 

as "The Dolls' Dressmaker" 

Eugene Wrayburn A reckless young lawyer 

Headstone A schoolmaster 

Mr. Venus A dismal young man with a dismal trade — 

the stringing together of human skeletons on wires 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 



WHAT HAPPENED TO JOHN HARMON 

In London there once lived an old man named 
Harmon who had made a great fortune by gather- 
ing the dust and ashes of the city and sorting it for 
whatever it contained of value. He lived in a 
house surrounded by great mounds of dust that 
he had collected. 

He was a hard-hearted man and when his 
daughter would not marry as he wished he turned 
her out of the house on a winter's night. The poor 
girl died soon after, and her younger brother (a 
boy of only fourteen), indignant at his father's 
cruelty, ran away to a foreign country, where for 
years he was not heard of. 

The old man, hard-hearted as he was, and 
though he never spoke of the son save with anger 
and curses, felt this keenly, for in his own way he 
had loved the boy. 

A Mr. Boffin was foreman of Harmon's dust 
business, and both he and his wife had loved the 
two children. Being kind and just people, they 
did not hesitate to let the father know how wicked 
they considered his action, and they never ceased 
325 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

to grieve for the poor little John who had run 
away. So, though they did not guess it, the old 
man made up his mind they were an honest and de- 
serving pair. 

One morning the dust collector was discovered 
dead in his bed, and then it wis found that he had 
left a very curious will. The will bequeathed all 
his vast fortune to the son who had run away, on 
one condition : that he marry a young lady by the 
name of Bella Wilfer, the daughter of a poor 
London clerk. 

The son had never seen Bella in his life, and in 
fact the old man himself had seen her only a few 
times — and that was a long, long time before, 
when she was a very little girl. He was sitting in 
the park one Sunday morning, and the baby Bella, 
because her father would not go the exact way she 
wanted, was screaming and stamping her little 
foot. Old Mr. Harmon, having such a stubborn 
temper himself, admired it in the little child, and 
came to watch for her. Then, for some strange 
reason, which nobody ever could guess, he had put 
the baby's name in his will, declaring that his son 
John should get his money only by marrying this 
little girl. And the will declared, moreover, that 
if the son, John Harmon, should die, or should 
refuse to marry Bella, all the fortune should go to 
Mr. Boffin. 

The lawyers had great trouble in finding where 
John Harmon was, but finally they did so, and re- 
326 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 

celved word that he would return at once to Eng- 
land. 

The ship he sailed on reached London, but the 
passenger it carried did not appear. A few days 
later, a riverman named Hexam found a body- 
floating in the River Thames, which flows through 
the middle of London. In his pockets were the let- 
ters the lawyers had written to John Harmon, and 
there seemed no doubt that the unfortunate young 
man had been murdered and his body thrown into 
the river. 

The night the body was found, while it lay at 
the police station, a young man, very much excited, 
came and asked to see it. He would not tell who he 
was, and his whole appearance was most wild and 
strange. The police wondered, but they saw no 
reason to detain the stranger, so after looking at 
the body, he went away again very hastily. 

A great stir was made about the case, and the 
police tried their best to discover the murderer, 
but they were unsuccessful. Then it occurred to 
them that there was something suspicious in the 
appearance of the young man that night. They 
tried to find him, but he seemed to have disap- 
peared. 

At last the fortune was turned over to Mr. Bof- 
fin, and all but a few people thought no more about 
the murder. 

Now, it was not really true that John Harmon 
had been drowned. This is what had happened: 
327 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

The young man had come back to England un- 
willingly, though he was coming to such wealth. 
Having left his father so long before in anger, he 
hardly liked to touch the money. And he dreaded 
having to marry a young lady he had never seen, 
with whom all his life he might be most unhappy. 

On the ship was a seaman about his own age 
whose face somewhat resembled his own. With 
this man Harmon became friendly and before the 
ship reached England he had told him his trouble 
and his dread. The other proposed that Harmon 
disguise himself in sailor's clothes, go into the 
neighborhood where Miss Bella Wilfer lived, and 
see if she was one whom he could love. 

Now the man whom Harmon was thus trusting 
was a villain, who, while he had been listening to 
the other's story, had been planning a crime 
against him. He had made up his mind to kill 
Harmon, and, as he looked so much like him, to 
marry Bella himself and claim the fortune. 

Near the docks where the ship came in was a 
sailors' boarding-house owned by a riverman of 
bad reputation named "Rogue" Riderhood. Rid- 
erhood had once been the partner of Hexam, the 
man who found the floating body, but one day he 
was caught trying to rob a live man and Hex- 
am had cast him off. The seaman took Harmon to 
this house and there he secretly got from Rider- 
hood some poison. Last he persuaded Harmon to 
change clothes with him. 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 

All that remained now was to get rid of the real 
Harmon. To do this he put the poison in a cup of 
coffee, and Harmon, drinking this, became insensi- 
ble. 

The lodging-house hung out over the river and 
the wicked man had intended throwing the other's 
body, dressed now in seaman's clothing, into the 
water. But fate was quickly to spoil his plan. He 
and some others fell to quarreling over the money 
found in the clothing of the unconscious man. The 
result was a desperate fight, and when it was over 
there were two bodies thrown from the window 
into the black river — the drugged man and the 
seaman who had planned his murder. 

The shock of the cold water brought the 
drugged Harmon to his senses. He struck out, and 
after a terrible struggle succeeded in reaching 
shore. The exposure and the poison made him 
very ill and he lay abed in an inn for some days. 
While he was lying helpless there the drowned 
body of the seaman was found by Hexam, the 
riverman. As it wore the clothes of John Harmon, 
and had his papers in its pockets, every one sup- 
posed, of course, that it was the body of the miss- 
ing heir. 

The first thing John Harmon saw after he was 
well enough to walk was a printed notice announc- 
ing the finding of his own dead body — which gave 
him a very queer sensation. Lying there he had 
had time to think over the adventure and he had 
329 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

guessed pretty nearly how it all had happened. 
He went at once to the police station to look at the 
corpse and saw it was that of his false friend, who 
had tried to lure him to his death. So it was the 
real John Harmon who had so excitedly appeared 
that night to the police inspectors, and had van- 
ished immediately, and whom they had searched 
for so long in vain, under the suspicion that he 
himself was the murderer. 

He had a very good reason for not letting the 
police find him, too. Now that the world consid- 
ered him dead, he had determined, before he came 
to life, to carry out his first plan, and to find out 
for himself just what kind of person the Bella 
Wilfer he was expected to marry was, and whether 
Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, who had been so kind to him 
in his childhood, would still be as true to his mem- 
ory in their wealth. For this reason he did not 
correct the error that had been made. He took the 
name of John Rokesmith, and, to get acquainted 
with Bella, hired lodgings in her own father's 
house. 

Mr. Wilfer was a clerk for a Mr. Veneering, a 
man who had made a big fortune in the drug busi- 
ness and wanted now to get into Parliament. 
Everything the Veneerings had was brand new. 
They spent a great deal of money entertaining so- 
ciety people at dinners, but Mr. Veneering spent 
very little on his clerks. Bella's father, though he 
was always as happy as a cherub. Was so poor that 
330 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 

he never had been able to buy a whole new suit at 
once. His hat was shabby before he could afford a 
coat, and his trousers were worn before he got to 
new shoes. So he was glad enough indeed to get 
a lodger. 

Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, to be sure, now had the 
great fortune. They bought a fine house, and 
everybody called Mr. Boffin "The Golden Dust- 
man," because he was so rich. Mrs. Boffin wore 
velvet dresses, and Mr. Boffin, thinking that now 
he was rich he ought to know a great deal about 
books, bought a big volume of the History of the 
Roman Empire and hired a man with a wooden 
leg who kept a ballad shop near by to come and 
read to him in the evenings. 

But in spite of all their fine things, Mr. and Mrs. 
Boffin remained the same good, kind-hearted 
couple they had always been. John Harmon (or 
John Rokesmith, as he now called himself), soon 
found this out, for he cleverly got a position as Mr. 
Boffin's secretary, taking charge of all his papers 
and preventing many dishonest people from cheat- 
ing him. And Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, never sus- 
pecting who he really was, instead of "secretary," 
called him "Our Mutual Friend," and soon grew 
fond of him. 

Nor did they forget Bella Wilfer (for whose 

disappointment, at not getting the rich husband 

she had expected, they felt very sorry) , and soon 

invited her to live with them. Bella was a good- 

331 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

tempered, pretty girl, though inclined to be some- 
what selfish and spoiled, and she was not sure, 
after all, that she would have liked a husband who 
had been willed to her like a dozen silver spoons; 
so she did not grieve greatly, and accepted Mr. 
and Mrs. Boffin's offer gratefully. 

So now the secretary, John Rokesmith, beside 
being constantly with Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, whom 
he had always loved, had a chance to see Bella 
every day, and he was not long in finding out that 
it would be very easy, indeed, for him to fall in 
love with her. 

II 

LIZZIE HEXAM AND THE DOLLS' DRESSMAKER 

Hexam, the riverman who had found the body 
floating in the Thames, made a living by watching 
in his boat for drowned bodies, and getting any 
rewards that might be offered for finding them. 
He had two children — a daughter, Lizzie, who 
used to row' the boat for him, and a younger son, 
Charley. 

Lizzie was a beautiful girl and a good daughter, 
and she never ceased to beseech her father to quit 
this ghastly business. She saved every cent she 
could get to give her brother some schooling, and 
kept urging the boy until he left home and became 
a teacher in a respectable school. For her own part 
she chose to stay by her father, hoping, in spite of 
332 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 

her hatred of his calling, to make him sometime 
something better. 

The night Hexam found the body the lawyers 
who had the Harmon will in charge came to his 
house to see about it. One of them, a careless 
young man by the name of Eugene Wrayburn, 
was greatly struck with the beauty of Lizzie, and 
pitied her because of the life she was obliged to 
live, and this interest in her made him even more 
deeply interested in the case of the odd will and 
the strange murder. 

Now Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, since they were rich, 
had offered a great reward for the arrest of the 
murderer of John Harmon. To get this reward 
and at the same time to avenge himself on his old 
partner Hexam for casting him off. Rogue Rid- 
erhood went to the lawyers and declared that it 
was Hexam himself who had really killed the man 
whose body he had found. Riderhood swore that 
Hexam had confessed the crime to him. 

Wrayburn, knowing what a shock this charge 
against her father would be for Lizzie, went with 
the officers sent to seize him. But they made no ar- 
rest, for that night Hexam himself was drowned 
by accidentally falling from his own boat. 

But the false charge against him lay heavy on 
Lizzie's mind. She hated the river and all that 
was connected with it, and soon found herself a 
decent lodging in another part of London. 

Here she lived with a weird little dwarf of a 

333 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

girl, so deformed that she could scarcely walk at 
all. 

"I can't get up," she used to say to strangers, 
"because my back's bad and my legs are queer." 

She had an odd face, with sharp gray eyes, and 
her wits were sharper yet. She worked at the 
strangest trade in the world. She had visiting 
cards on which was printed: 



MISS JENNIE WREN 

DOLLS' DRESSMAKER 



Dolls Attended at Their Own Residence 



She was really and truly a dolls' dressmaker and 
sat all day long making tiny frocks out of silk and 
ribbon. Every evening she would hobble out to 
the door of the theater or of a house where a ball 
was going on and wait until a lady came out in a 
beautiful costume; then she would take careful 
note of it and go home and dress a doll just like it. 
She even made a minister doll, in clerical collar 
and surplice, and used to rent him out for doll 
weddings. 

But in spite of her trade she disliked children, 
because the rude ones of the neighborhood called 
her names through her keyhole and mimicked her 
bent back and crooked legs. 

334 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 

"Don't talk to me of children," she often said; 
*'I know their tricks and their manners!" and when 
she said this she would make a fierce little jab in 
the air with her needle, as if she were putting out 
somebody's eyes. 

Jennie Wren had a miserable drunkard of a 
father, whom she called her "troublesome child." 

"He is enough to break his mother's heart," she 
would say when he staggered in. "I wish I had 
never brought him up. Ugh! You muddling, dis- 
graceful, prodigal old son! I can't bear to look at 
you. Go into your corner this minute." And the 
wretched creature, whining and maudlin, would 
shuffle into his corner in disgrace, not daring to 
disobey her. 

The odd little dolls' dressmaker was cheerful 
and merry with all her trials and loved Lizzie 
Hexam very much. Wrayburn, the young lawyer, 
used to come to see them, but she did not approve 
of him. She saw almost before Lizzie did herself 
that the latter was falling in love wath Wrayburn, 
and the wise little creature feared that this would 
only bring pain to Lizzie, because she was an un- 
educated girl and Wrayburn a gentleman, who, 
when he married, would be expected to marry a 
lady far above Lizzie's station. Lizzie knew this, 
too, but she could not help loving Wrayburn, and 
as for the lawyer, he thought nothing of what the 
outcome might be. 

Meanwhile Lizzie's brother Charley, for whom 

335 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

she had worked so hard, was doing well at school, 
but now that he was getting up in the world he had 
turned out to be a selfish boy and was afraid that 
his sister might draw him down. 

One day he came to visit her, bringing with him 
the master of his school. The master's name was 
Headstone. He was a gloomy, passionate, revenge- 
ful man who dressed always in black and had no 
friends. Unfortunately enough, the first time he 
saw Lizzie he fell in love with her. It was unfor- 
tunate in more ways than one, for Lizzie disliked 
him greatly, and he was, as it proved, a man who 
would stop at nothing — not even at the worst of 
crimes — to attain an object. 

When Lizzie's brother found Headstone wanted 
to marry her, in his selfishness he saw only what a 
fine thing it would be for himself, and when she 
refused, he said many harsh things and finally left 
her in anger, telling her she was no longer a sister 
of his. 

This was not the worst either, for she knew 
Headstone had been made almost angry by her dis- 
like, and she was in dreadful fear lest he do harm 
to Eugene Wrayburn, whom he suspected she 
loved. 

In her anxiety Lizzie left her lodging with the 
dolls' dressmaker, and found employment in a pa- 
per-mill in a village on the river, some miles from 
London, letting neither Wrayburn nor Headstone 
know where she had gone. 
336 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 

The schoolmaster imagined that the lawyer 
(whom he now hated with a deadly hatred) knew 
where she was, and in order to discover if he vis- 
ited her he began to dog the other's footsteps. At 
night, after teaching all day in school, Headstone 
would lie in wait outside the lawyer's door and 
whenever he came out would follow him. 

Wrayburn soon discovered this and delighted to 
fool his enemy. Every night he would take a new 
direction and lead his pursuer for hours about the 
city. So that in a few weeks Headstone became al- 
most insane with murderous anger and disappoint- 
ment. 

So things went on for a long while. Lizzie con- 
tinued to love Eugene Wrayburn, who kept trying 
in every way to find her. Headstone, the school- 
master, kept watching him and meditating evil. 
The little dolls' dressmaker worked on cheerily 
every day in the city, and in their fine house Mr. 
and Mrs. Boffin grew fonder and fonder of Miss 
Bella, whom John Rokesmith, the secretary, 
thought more beautiful every day. 



Ill 

THE RISE AND FALL OF SILAS WEGG 

The wooden-legged ballad seller whom Mr. 
Boffin had hired to read to him was a sly, dishon- 
est rascal named Silas Wegg, who soon made' up 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

his mind to get all the money he could out of his 
employer. 

There is an old story of a camel who once asked 
a shopkeeper to let him put his nose in at the shop 
door to warm it. The shopkeeper consented, and 
little by little the camel got his head, then his neck, 
then his shoulders and at last his whole body into 
the shop, so that there was no room for the poor 
shopkeeper, who had to sit outside in the cold. 
Wegg soon began to act like the camel and took 
such advantage of easy-going Mr. Boffin that the 
latter at last let him live rent-free in the house 
amid the dust heaps, which he himself had occu- 
pied before he got old Harmon's money. 

Wegg imagined the mounds contained treasures 
hidden by the old man and thought it would be a 
fine thing to cheat Mr. Boffin out of them. So 
every night he spent hours prodding the heaps. 
Finally he persuaded a Mr. Venus (a man who 
had been disappointed in love and made a melan- 
choly living by stringing skeletons together on 
wires), to become his partner in the search. 

One day Wegg really did find something. It 
was a parchment hidden in an empty pump, and he 
soon saw that it was a second will of old Harmon's, 
later than the one already known, leaving the 
whole fortune, not to the son at all, but to the 
Crown. 

When Wegg saw this his hypocritical soul 
swelled with joy, for he thought, sooner than give 
338 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 

up all the money to the Crown, Mr. Boffin would 
pay him a great deal to destroy this new will. He 
was such a rascal himself that it never occurred to 
him that maybe Mr. Boffin would prefer to be hon- 
est. He took it for granted everybody else was as 
bad as he was himself, yet all the while he tried to 
make himself believe that he was upright and noble 
in all he did, as hypocrites generally do. 
■ The only point Wegg could not make up his 
mind about was how much he could squeeze out of 
his benefactor, Mr. Boffin. At first he had thought 
of asking for half, but the more he hugged his se- 
cret the lesser the half seemed. At last he deter- 
mined to demand for himself, as the price for giv- 
ing up the will, all but a very small share of the 
whole fortune. 

Now Mr. Venus, though he had yielded at first 
to the rosy temptations of Wegg, was after all quite 
honest at heart, and his conscience troubled him so 
that at last he went and told Mr. Boffin all about 
Wegg's discovery. 

The Golden Dustman at first thought Mr. Venus 
had some underhanded plan, so he pretended he 
was terribly frightened for fear of Wegg and the 
will he had found. 

As a matter of fact, sly old Mr. Boffin was not 
afraid in the least, because he knew something that 
neither Wegg nor Venus, nor even John Roke- 
smith, the secretary, knew. This was, that the old 
original dustman, Harmon, had made still a third 

339 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

will, later than either of the others. The first will 
found was the one that had called the son back to 
England to marry Bella. The second will was the 
one leaving all his fortune to the Crown, which 
Wegg had found in the empty pump. The third 
and last one gave all the money to Mr. Boffin, no 
matter whom the son married, and gave none to 
any one else. And this third and last will, the one 
that was the true will, The Golden Dustman had 
long ago found himself, buried in a bottle in one 
of the dust heaps. 

Mr. Boffin had never told any one about this last 
will, because he had all the fortune anyway. Now, 
however, seeing how Wegg had planned to act, he 
was very glad he had found it. And when he was 
convinced that Mr. Venus was really honest and 
wanted no reward whatever, Mr. Boffin deter- 
mined to fool the rascally Wegg up to the very 
last moment. 

Wegg's plan was not to demand the money until 
he had fully searched all the dust mounds. Mr. 
Boffin spurred Wegg on in this regard by making 
him read to him in the evenings from a book called 
The Lives of Famous Misers which he had bought : 
about the famous Mr. Dancer who had warmed his 
dinner by sitting on it and died naked in a sack, 
and yet had gold and bank-notes hidden in the 
crevices of the walls and in cracked jugs and tea- 
pots ; of an old apple woman in whose house a for- 
tune was found wrapped up in little scraps of pa- 
340 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 

per; of "Vulture Hopkins" and "Blewbury Jones" 
and many others whose riches after their death 
were found hidden in strange places. While Wegg 
read, Mr. Boffin would pretend to get tremen- 
dously excited about his dust mounds, so that 
Wegg grew surer and surer there must be riches 
hidden in them. 

Finally The Golden Dustman sold the mounds 
and had them carted away little by little, Wegg 
watching every shovelful for fear he would miss 
something. 

Mr. Boffin hired a foreman to manage the re- 
moval of the dust who wore Wegg down to skin 
and bone. He worked by daylight and torchlight, 
too. Just as Wegg, tired out by watching all day in 
the rain, would crawl into bed, the foreman, like a 
goblin, would reappear and go to work again. 
Sometimes Wegg would be waked in the middle 
of the night, and sometimes kept at his post for as 
much as forty-eight hours at a stretch, till he grew 
so gaunt and haggard that even his wooden leg 
looked chubby in comparison. 

At last he could not keep quiet any longer and 
he told Mr. Boffin what he had found. Mr. Boffin 
pretended the most abject dread. Wegg bullied 
and browbeat him to his heart's content, and ended 
by ordering him, like a slave, to be ready to receive 
him on a certain morning, and to have the money 
ready to pay him. 

When he went to the fine Boffin house to keep 
341 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

this appointment he entered insolently, whistling 
and with his hat on. A servant showed him into 
the library where Mr. Boffin and the secretary sat 
waiting, and where the secretary at once astonished 
him by taking off the hat and throwing it out of 
the window. 

In another moment Wegg found himself seized 
by the cravat, shaken till his teeth rattled, and 
pinned In a corner of the room, where the secretary 
knocked his head against the wall while he told 
him in a few words what a scoundrel he was. 

When he learned that the will he had discovered 
was worthless paper, Wegg lost all his bullying air 
and cringed before them. Mr. Boffin was disposed 
to be merciful and offered to make good his loss of 
his ballad business, but Wegg, grasping and mean 
to the last, set its value at such a ridiculously high 
figure that Mr. Boffin put his money back into his 
pocket. 

Then, at a sign from John Rokesmith, one of the 
servants caught Wegg by the collar, hoisted him on 
his back, ran down to the street with him and 
threw him into a garbage cart, where he disap- 
peared from view with a tremendous splash. 

And that, so far as this story is concerned, was the 
end of Silas Wegg. 



342 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 
IV 

BELLA AND THE GOLDEN DUSTMAN 

It was not long before John Rokesmith, the sec- 
retary, was very much in love with Bella indeed. 
Bella saw this plainly, but the fine house and costly 
clothes had quite spoiled her, and, thinking him 
only a poor secretary and her father's lodger, she 
treated him almost with contempt. 

Yet he would not tell her who he was, for he did 
not want her to marry him merely because of the 
money it would bring her. She hurt his feelings 
often, but in spite of it she could not help being at- 
tracted to him. He had a way, too, of looking at 
her that made her feel how proud and unjust she 
was, and sometimes made her quite despise herself. 

But having had a taste of the pleasures and com- 
forts that wealth would bring, Bella had quite de- 
termined when she married to marry nobody but a 
very rich man. Mr. and Mrs. Boffin both noticed 
how changed she was growing from her own sweet 
self and regretted it, for they liked Bella and they 
liked the secretary, too, and they could easily see 
that the latter was in love with her. 

One day Mrs. Boffin went to the secretary's room 
for something. As she entered, Rokesmith, who 
was sitting sadly over the fire, looked up with a pe- 
culiar expression that told the good woman all in a 
flash who he was. 

343 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

"I know you now," she cried, "you're little John 
Harmon!" 

In the joy and surprise she almost fainted, but he 
caught her and set her down beside him. Just then 
in came Mr. Boffin, and the secretary told them the 
whole story, and how he now loved Bella, but 
would not declare himself because of her contempt. 

Both Mr. and Mrs. Boffin were so glad to know 
he was really alive they fell to crying with joy. 
The Golden Dustman declared that, no matter how 
the last will read, John should have the fortune for 
his own. Rokesmith (or Harmon) at first refused 
to do this, but Mr. Boffin swore that if he did not 
he himself would not touch the money, and it 
would have to go to the Crown anyway. So at last 
it was agreed that Mr. Boffin should keep a small 
portion for his own, but that the other should take 
all the rest. 

Mr. Boffin wanted to tell everybody the truth at 
once, but John would not let them. You see he 
wouldn't marry Bella for anything unless she loved 
him for himself alone. And she was growing so 
fond of riches that there seemed little chance of this 
happening. 

Nevertheless they believed that at heart Bella 
was good and sweet, if they could only get to her 
real self, so Mr. Boffin that moment made a plan. 

He determined to show Bella how much un- 
happiness misused riches could cause, and how too 
much money might sometimes spoil the kindest 
344 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 

and best people. As a lesson to her in this he was to 
pretend gradually to turn into a mean, hard- 
hearted miser. They agreed that he should begin 
to treat the secretary harshly and unjustly in Bella's 
presence, feeling sure that her true self would 
stand up for him when he was slighted, and be 
kinder to him when he seemed poorest and most 
friendless. 

The Golden Dustman began the new plan that 
very night. Every day he made himself act like a 
regular brown bear, and every evening he would 
say, "I'll be a grislier old growler to-morrow." He 
made the secretary slave from morning till night 
and found fault with him and sneered at his pov- 
erty and cut down his wages. 

Each afternoon, when he went walking with 
Bella, Mr. Boffin would make her go into book- 
shops and inquire if they had any book about a 
miser. If they had, he would buy it, no matter 
what it cost, and lug it home to read. He began to 
drive hard bargains for everything he bought and 
all his talk came to be about money and the fine 
thing it was to have it. 

"Go in for money, my dear," he would say to 
Bella. "Money's the article! You'll make money 
of your good looks, and of the money Mrs. Boffin 
and me will leave you, and you'll live and die rich. 
That's the state to live and die in — R-r-rich!" 

Bella was greatly shocked at the sorrowful 
change in Mr. Boffin. Wealth began to look less 

345 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

lovely when she saw him growing so miserly. She 
began to wonder if she herself might ever become 
like that, too, and sometimes, when she thought how 
kind and generous the old Mr. Boffin had been, she 
fairly hated money and wished it had never been 
invented. 

There was an old woman who peddled knitting- 
work through the country whom Mr. and Mrs. 
Boffin had befriended, and to whom they had given 
a letter to carry wherever she went. This letter 
asked whoever should find her, if she fell sick, to 
let them know. The old woman fell and died one 
day by the roadside near the spot where Lizzie 
Hexam was now living, and Lizzie, finding the let- 
ter, wrote about it to Mr. and Mrs. Boffin. 

They sent the secretary and Bella, to make ar- 
rangements for the poor woman's burial, and in 
this way Bella met Lizzie and became her friend. 
Lizzie soon told her all her story, and Bella, seeing 
how unselfishly she loved, began to think her own 
ambition to marry for money a mean and ignoble 
thing. She thought how patient and kind the secre- 
tary had always been, and, knowing he loved her, 
wished heartily that her own coldness had not- for- 
bidden him to tell her so. 

One day Mr. Boffin's pretended harsh treatment 
of his secretary seemed to come to a climax. He 
sent for him to come to the room where Mrs. Boffin 
and Bella sat, and made a fearful scene. He said 
he had just heard that he, Rokesmith, had been pre- 
346 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 

suming on his position to make love to Bella — a 
young lady who wanted to marry money, who had 
a right to marry money, and who was very far from 
wanting to marry a poor beggar of a private secre- 
tary! He threw the wages that were due Roke- 
smith on the floor and discharged him on the spot, 
telling him the sooner he could pack up and leave, 
the better. 

Then, at last, in the face of this apparent mean- 
ness and injustice, Bella saw herself and Mr. Bof- 
fin's money and John Rokesmith's love and dignity, 
all in their true light. She burst out crying, begged 
Rokesmith's forgiveness, told Mr. Boffin he was an 
old wretch of a miser, and when the secretary had 
gone, she said Rokesmith was a gentleman and 
worth a million Boffins, and she would not stay in 
the house a minute longer. 

Then she packed up her things and went straight 
to her father's office. All the other clerks had gone 
home, for it was after hours, and she put her head 
on his shoulder and told him all about it. 

And while they were talking, in came John 
Rokesmith, and seeing her there alone with her 
father, rushed to her and caught her in his arms. 

"My dear, brave, noble, generous girl!" he said, 
and Bella, feeling all at once that she had never 
been quite so happy in her life, laid her head on his 
breast, as if that were the one place for it in all the 
world. 

They had a talk together and then walked home 

347 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

to Mr. Wilfer's poor little house, Bella's father 
agreeing that she had done exactly the proper 
thing, and Bella herself feeling so happy now in 
having John Rokesmith's love, that she cared not a 
bit for the fine mansion and clothes and money of 
the Boffins which she had left for ever. 

A few days later John Rokesmith and Bella were 
married and went to live in a little furnished cot- 
tage outside of London, where they settled down as 
happy as two birds. 



THE END OF THE STORY 

While these things were happening at Mr. Bof- 
fin's house, Eugene Wrayburn, with Headstone the 
schoolmaster watching him like a hawk, had never 
left ofif trying to find where Lizzie Hexam had 
gone. At length, through the "troublesome child" 
of the little dolls' dressmaker, he learned the name 
of the village where she was living and went at once 
to see her. 

Headstone followed close behind him and when, 
from his hiding-place, he saw how glad Lizzie was 
to see the lawyer, he went quite mad with jealousy 
and hate, and that moment he determined to kill 
Wrayburn. 

It happened that Rogue Riderhood was then 
working on the river that flowed past the vil- 
lage, where he tended a lock. The schoolmaster, in 
348 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 

order to turn suspicion from himself in case any 
one should see him when he did this wicked deed, 
observing carefully how Riderhood was dressed, 
got himself clothes exactly like the lock tender's, 
even to a red handkerchief tied around his neck. 

In this guise, with murder in his heart, he lay in 
wait along the riverside till Wrayburn passed one 
evening just after he had bade good night to Lizzie 
Hexam. The schoolmaster crept up close behind 
the lawyer and struck him a fearful crashing blow 
on the head with a club. Wrayburn grappled with 
him, but Headstone struck again and again with 
the bloody weapon, and still again as the other lay 
prostrate at his feet, and dragging the body to the 
bank, threw it into the river. Then he fled. 

Lizzie Hexam had not yet turned homeward 
from the riverside. She heard through the night 
the sound of the blows, the faint moan and the 
splash. She ran to the spot, saw the trampled grass, 
and, looking across the water, saw a bloody face 
drifting away. She ran to launch a boat, and rowed 
with all her strength to overtake it. 

But for her dreadful life on the river with her 
father she could not have found the drowning man 
in the darkness, but she did, and then she saw it 
was the man she loved. One terrible cry she ut- 
tered, then rowed with desperate strokes to the 
shore and with superhuman strength carried him 
to a near-by inn. 

Wrayburn was not dead, but was dreadfully dis- 

349 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

figured. For many days he hovered between life 
and death. Jennie Wren, the dolls' dressmaker, 
came, and she and Lizzie nursed him. As soon as 
he could speak he made them understand that be- 
fore he died he wanted Lizzie to marry him. A 
minister was sent for, and with him came John 
Rokesmith and Bella. So the sick man was married 
to Lizzie, and from that hour he began to get bet- 
ter, till before long they knew that he would re- 
cover. 

Meanwhile, not waiting to see the result of his 
murderous attack. Headstone had fled down the 
river bank to the hut where Riderhood lived and 
there the villainous lock tender let him rest and 
sleep. As the schoolmaster tossed in his guilty 
slumber, Riderhood noted that his clothes were 
like his own. He unbuttoned the sleeping man's 
jacket, saw the red handkerchief, and, having 
heard from a passing boatman of the attempted 
murder, he guessed that Headstone had done it and 
saw how he had plotted to lay the crime on him. 

When the schoolmaster went away Riderhood 
followed him, watched him change clothes in the 
bushes and rescued the bloody garments the other 
threw away. 

With these in his hands he faced the schoolmas- 
ter one day in his class room and made him prom- 
ise, under threat of exposure, to come that night to 
the hut by the lock. Headstone was afraid to dis- 
obey. When he came, Riderhood told him he must 
350 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 

give him money at once or he would follow him till 
he did. 

Headstone refused and, as the other had threat- 
ened, when he started back to London, he found 
the lock tender by his side. He returned to the hut 
and the other did the same. 

He started again, and again the other walked be- 
side him. Then Headstone, turning suddenly, 
caught Riderhood around the waist and dragged 
him to the edge of the lock. 

"Let go!" said Riderhood. "You can't drown 
me!" 

"I can," panted Headstone. "And I can drown 
myself. I'll hold you living and I'll hold you dead. 
Come down!" 

Riderhood went over backward into the water, 
and the schoolmaster upon him. When they found 
them, long afterward, Riderhood's body was gir- 
dled still with the schoolmaster's arms and they 
held him tight. 

This was the awful end of the two wicked men 
whom fate had brought into Lizzie's life. 

All this time, of course, Bella had been believing 
her husband to be very poor. At first he had in- 
tended to tell her who he was on the day they were 
married, but he said to himself: "No, she's so un- 
selfish and contented I can't afford to be rich yet." 
So he pretended to get a position in the city at small 
wages. Then after a few months he thought it over 
again, and he said to himself, "She's such a cheer- 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

ful little housewife that I can't afford to be rich 
yet." And at last a little baby was born to Bella, 
and then they were so happy that he said, "She's so 
much sweeter than she ever was that I can't afford 
to be rich just yet!" 

But meantime Bella was imagining that Mr. 
Boffin was a cruel old miser, and Mr. Boffin didn't 
like this, so John agreed that he would tell her all 
about it. 

But first he got Bella to describe exactly the kind 
of house she would like if they were very, very 
rich, and when she told him, he and Mr. Boffin 
had the Boffin mansion fixed over in just the way 
she had said — with a nursery with rainbow-colored 
walls and flowers on the staircase, and even a little 
room full of live birds, and a jewel box full of 
jewels on the dressing-table. 

Fate, however, had arranged even a greater trial 
of Bella's love for him than all the others. As they 
walked together on the street one day, they came 
face to face with a man who had been in the police 
office on the night the body which every one be- 
lieved to be John Harmon's had lain there. He 
had seen the entrance of the agitated stranger, and 
had helped the police in their later vain search for 
Rokesmith. Now he at once recognized Bella's 
husband as that man, who the police believed had 
probably committed the murder. 

Rokesmith knew the man had recognized him, 
and when they got home he told Bella that he was 

352 




Jennie Wren and her " troublesome child " Sir f^igr jjj^ 



OUR MUTUAL FRIEND 

accused of killing the man the Harmon will had 
bidden her marry. 

But nothing now could shake her faith In him. 
"How dare they!" she cried indignantly. "My be- 
loved husband." He caught her in his arms at that, 
and while he held her thus the officers entered to 
arrest him. 

Rokesmith found the matter very easy to explain 
to the satisfaction of the police, but he told Bella 
nothing as yet, and, trusting and believing in him 
absolutely, she waited in great wonder. Next day 
he told her he had a new position and that now they 
must live in the city where he had taken a fur- 
nished house for them. 

They drove together to see it. Strangely enough 
it seemed to be in the same street as Mr. Boffin's 
house, and stranger yet, the coach stopped at Mr. 
Boffin's own door. Her husband put his arm 
around her and drew her in, and she saw that 
everything was covered with flowers. As he led 
her on she exclaimed in astonishment to see the lit- 
tle room full of birds just as she had wished. 

Suddenly her husband opened a door and there 
was Mr. Boffin beaming and Mrs. Boffin shedding 
tears of joy, and folding her to her breast as she 
said: "My deary, deary, deary, wife of John and 
mother of his little child! My loving loving, 
bright bright, pretty pretty! Welcome to your 
house and home, my deary!" 

Then of course the whole story came out. The 

353 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

mystery was solved and she knew that John Roke- 
smith was the true John Harmon and that her hus- 
band was really the man the Harmon will had 
picked out for her to marry. 

In the splendid Boffin house they lived happily 
for many years, surrounded by Bella's children. 
And they were never so happy as when they wel- 
comed Eugene Wrayburn with Lizzie his wife, or 
Jennie Wren, the little dolls' dressmaker. 



354 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES 

Published 1859 

Scene: London and Paris 
Time: 1775 to 1792 

CHARACTERS 

Doctor Manette A French physician 

Rescued after long imprisonment in the Bastille 

Lucie His daughter 

Miss Pross Her English nurse 

Sydney Carton An idle and dissipated law student 

Mr. Lorry The agent of an English bank doing 

business in Paris 

The Marquis de St. Evremonde A French nobleman 

Charles Darnay His nephew 

A young Frenchman living in England as a tutor 

Later, the Marquis de St. Evremonde, and Lucie's 

husband 

Gabelle The steward of Darnay 's French estates 

Defarge A Paris wine shop keeper 

A leader of the revolutionists 

Madame Defarge His wife 

Barsad A spy and turnkey 



355 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES 



HOW LUCIE FOUND A FATHER 

A little more than a hundred years ago there 
lived in London (one of the two cities of this tale) 
a lovely girl of seventeen named Lucie Manette. 
Her mother had died when she was a baby, in 
France, and she lived alone with her old nurse. 
Miss Pross, a homely, grim guardian with hair as 
red as her face, who called Lucie "ladybird" and 
loved her very much. Miss Pross was sharp of 
speech and was always snapping people up as if 
she would bite their heads off, but, though she sel- 
dom chose to show it, she was the kindest, truest, 
most unselfish person in the world. Lucie had no 
memory of her father, and had always believed he 
also had died when she was a baby. 

One day, however, through a Mr. Lorry, the 
agent of a bank, she learned a wonderful piece of 
news. He told her that her father was not dead, 
but that he had been wickedly thrown into a secret 
prison in Paris before she was born, and had been 
lost thus for eighteen long years. This prison was 
the Bastille — a cold, dark building like a castle, 
with high gray towers, a deep moat and draw- 
bridge, and soldiers and cannon to defend it. 

357 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

In those days in France the rich nobles who be- 
longed to the royal court were very powerful and 
overbearing, and the rest of the people had few 
rights. One could be put into prison then without 
any trial at all, so that many innocent people suf- 
fered. Lucie's mother had guessed that Doctor 
Manette (for he was a physician) had in some way 
incurred the hatred of some one of the nobles and 
had thus been taken from her; but all she certainly 
knew was that he had disappeared one day in Paris 
and had never come back. 

For a year she had tried in every way to find 
him, but at length, desolate and heartbroken, she 
had fallen ill and died, leaving little Lucie with 
only Miss Pross, her English nurse, to care for 
her. Mr. Lorry himself, who told Lucie this story, 
having known her father, had brought her, a baby, 
to London in his arms. 

Now, he told her, after all these years, her father 
had been released, and was at that moment in Paris 
in charge of a man named Defarge, who had once 
been his servant. But the long imprisonment had 
affected his mind, so that he was little more than 
the broken wreck of the man he had once been. 
Mr. Lorry was about to go to Paris to identify him, 
and he wished Lucie to go also to bring him to him- 
self. 

You can imagine that Lucie's heart was both 
glad and sorrowful at the news; joyful that the 
father she had always believed dead was alive, and 
358 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES 

yet full of grief for his condition. She hastily made 
ready and that same day set out with Mr. Lorry for 
France. 

When they reached Paris they went at once to 
find Defarge. He was a stern, forbidding man, 
who kept a cheap wine shop in one of the poorer 
quarters of the city. He took them through a dirty 
courtyard behind the shop and up five flights of 
filthy stairs to a door, which he unlocked for them 
to enter. 

In the dim room sat a withered, white-haired 
old man on a low bench making shoes. His cheeks 
were worn and hollow, his eyes were bright and his 
long beard was as white as snow. He wore a ragged 
shirt, and his hands were thin and transparent from 
confinement. It was Lucie's father. Doctor Ma- 
nette ! 

He scarcely looked up when they entered, for 
his mind was gone and he knew no one. All that 
seemed to interest him was his shoemaking. He 
had forgotten everything else. He even thought 
his own name was "One hundred and five. North 
Tower," which had been the number of his cell in 
the Bastille. 

Lucie's heart almost broke to see him. She 
wanted to throw her arms about him, to lay her 
head on his breast and tell him she was his daughter 
who loved him and had come to take him home 
at last. But she was afraid this would frighten him. 

She came close to him, and after a while he be- 

359 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

gan to look at her. She greatly resembled her dead 
mother, and presently her face seemed to remind 
him of something. He unwound a string from 
around his neck and unfolded a little rag which 
was tied to it, and there was a lock of hair like 
Lucie's. Then he suddenly burst into tears — the 
first he had shed for long, long years — and the 
tears seemed to bring back a part of the past. Lucie 
took him in her arms and soothed him, while Mr. 
Lorry went to bring the coach that was to take them 
to England. 

Through all their preparations for departure 
her father sat watching in a sort of scared wonder, 
holding tight to Lucie's hand like a child, and 
when they told him to come with them he descend- 
ed the stairs obediently. But he would not go into 
the coach without his bench and shoemaking tools, 
and, to quiet him, they were obliged to take them, 
too. 

So the father and daughter and Mr. Lorry jour- 
neyed back to Lucie's home in London. All the 
miles they rode Lucie held her father's hand, and 
the touch seemed to give him strength and confi- 
dence. 

On the boat crossing to London was a young man 
who called himself Charles Darnay, handsome, 
dark and pale. He was most kind to Lucie, and 
showed her how to make a couch on deck for her 
father, and how she could shelter it from the wind. 
In the long months that followed their arrival, 
360 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES 

while the poor old man regained a measure of 
health, she never forgot Darnay's face and his 
kindness to them. 

Doctor Manette's mind and memory came 
slowly back with his improving health. There 
were some days when his brain clouded. Then 
Lucie would find him seated at his old prison 
bench making shoes, and she would coax him away 
and talk to him until the insanity would pass away. 

So time went by peacefully till a strange thing 
happened : Charles Darnay, who had been so kind 
to Lucie and her father on the boat, was arrested 
on a charge of treason. 

England at that time was not on good terms with 
France, and Darnay, who was of French birth, 
was accused of selling information concerning the 
English forts and army to the French Government. 
This was a very serious charge, for men convicted 
of treason then were put to death in the crudest 
ways that could be invented. 

The charge was not true, and Darnay himself 
knew quite well who was working against him. 

The fact was that Charles Darnay was not his 
true name. He was really Charles St. Evremonde, 
the descendant of a rich and noble French family, 
though he chose to live in London as Charles Dar- 
nay, and earned his living by giving lessons in 
French. He did this because he would not be one 
of the hated noble class of his own country, who 
treated the poor so heartlessly. 
361 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

In France the peasants had to pay many op- 
pressive taxes, and were wretched and half-starved, 
while the rich nobles rode in gilded coaches, and, 
if they ran over a little peasant child, threw a coin 
to its mother and drove on without a further 
thought. Among the hardest-hearted of all, and 
the most hated by the common people, were the 
Evremondes, the family of the young man who 
was now accused of treason. As soon as he was old 
enough to know how unjust was his family's treat- 
ment of the poor who were dependent on them, he 
had protested against it. When he became a man he 
had refused to live on the money that was thus 
taken from the hungry peasantry, and had left his 
home and come to London to earn his own way by 
teaching. 

His heartless uncle, the Marquis de St. Evre- 
monde, in France, the head of the family, hated 
the young man for this noble spirit. It was this 
uncle who had invented the plot to accuse his 
nephew of treason. He had hired a dishonest spy 
known as Barsad, who swore he had found papers 
in Darnay's trunk that proved his guilt, and, as 
Darnay had been often back and forth to France 
on family matters, the case looked dark for him. 

Cruelly enough, among those who were called 
to the trial as witnesses, to show that Darnay had 
made these frequent journeys to France, were Doc- 
tor Manette and Lucie — because they had seen him 
on the boat during that memorable crossing. Lu- 
362 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES 

cie's tears fell fast as she gave her testimony, be- 
lieving him innocent and knowing that her words 
would be used to condemn him. 

Darnay would doubtless have been convicted 
but for a curious coincidence: A dissipated young 
lawyer, named Sydney Carton, sitting in the court 
room, had noticed with surprise that he himself 
looked very much like the prisoner; in fact, that 
they were so much alike they might almost have 
been taken for twin brothers. He called the atten- 
tion of Darnay's lawyer to this, and the latter — 
while one of the witnesses against Darnay was 
making oath that he had seen him in a certain place 
in France — made Carton take off his wig (all law- 
yers wear wigs in England while in court) and 
stand up beside Darnay. The two were so alike 
the witness was puzzled, and he could not swear 
which of the two he had seen. For this reason Dar- 
nay, to Lucie's great joy, was found not guilty. 

Sydney Carton, who had thought of and sug- 
gested this clever thing, was a reckless, besotted 
young man. He cared for nobody, and nobody, he 
used to say, cared for him. He lacked energy and 
ambition to work and struggle for himself, but for 
the sake of plenty of money with which to buy 
liquor, he studied cases for another lawyer, who 
was fast growing rich by his labor. His master, 
who hired him, was the lion; Carton was content, 
through his own indolence and lack of purpose, to 
be the jackal. 

363 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

His conscience had always condemned him for 
this, and now, as he saw the innocent Darnay's 
look, noble and straightforward, so like himself as 
he might have been, and as he thought of Lucie's 
sweet face and of how she had wept as she was 
forced to give testimony against the other, Carton 
felt that he almost hated the man whose life he 
had saved. 

The trial brought Lucie and these two men (so 
like each other in feature, yet so unlike in char- 
acter) together, and afterward they often met at 
Doctor Manette's house. 

It was in a quiet part of London that Lucie and 
her father lived, all alone save for the faithful 
Miss Pross. They had little furniture, for they 
were quite poor, but Lucie made the most of every- 
thing. Doctor Manette had recovered his mind, 
but not all of his memory. Sometimes he would 
get up in the night and walk up and down, up and 
down, for hours. At such times Lucie would hurry 
to him and walk up and down with him till he was 
calm again. She never knew why he did this, but 
she came to believe he was trying vainly to remem- 
ber all that had happened in those lost years which 
he had forgotten. He kept his prison bench and 
tools always by him, but as time went on he gradu- 
ally used them less and less often. 

Mr. Lorry, with his flaxen wig and constant 
smile, came to tea every Sunday with them and 
helped to keep Doctor Manette cheerful. Some- 
364 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES 

times Darnay, Sydney Carton and Mr. Lorry 
would meet there together, but of them all, Darnay 
came oftenest, and soon it was easy to see that he 
was in love with Lucie. 

Sydney Carton, too, was in love with her, but he 
was perfectly aware that he was quite undeserving, 
and that Lucie could never love him in return. She 
was the last dream of his wild, careless life, the life 
he had wasted and thrown away. Once he told her 
this, and said that, although he could never be 
anything to her himself, he would give his life 
gladly to save any one who was near and dear to 
her. 

Lucie fell in love with Darnay at length and one 
day they were married and went away on their wed- 
ding journey. 

Until then, since his rescue, Lucie had never 
been out of Doctor Manette's sight. Now, though 
he was glad for her happiness, yet he felt the pain 
of the separation so keenly that it unhinged his 
mind again. Miss Pross and Mr. Lorry found him 
next morning making shoes at the old prison 
bench and for nine days he did not know them at 
all. At last, however, he recovered, and then, lest 
the sight of it afifect him, one day when he was not 
there they chopped the bench to pieces and burned 
it up. 

But her father was better after Lucie came back 
with her husband, and they took up their quiet 
life again. Darnay loved Lucie devotedly. He 
365 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

supported himself still by teaching. Mr. Lorry- 
came from the bank oftener to tea and Sydney Car- 
ton more rarely, and their life was peaceful and 
content. 

Once after his marriage, his cruel uncle, the 
Marquis de St. Evremonde, sent for Darnay to 
come to France on family matters. Darnay went, 
but declined to remain or to do the other's bid- 
ding. 

But his uncle's evil life was soon to be ended. 
While Darnay was there the marquis was mur- 
dered one night in his bed by a grief-crazed la- 
borer, whose little child his carriage had run over. 

Darnay returned to England, shocked and hor- 
rified the more at the indifiference of the life led 
by his race in France. Although now, by the death 
of his uncle, he had himself become the Marquis 
de St. Evremonde, yet he would not lay claim to 
the title, and left all the estates in charge of one 
of the house servants, an honest steward named 
Gabelle. 

He had intended after his return to Lucie to 
settle all these affairs and to dispose of the property, 
which he felt it wrong for him to hold; but in the 
peace and happiness of his life in England he put 
it off and did nothing further. 

And this neglect of Darnay's — as important 
things neglected are apt to prove — came before 
long to be the cause of terrible misfortune and 
agony to them all. 

366 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES 
II 

DARNAY CAUGHT IN THE NET 

While these things were happening in London, 
the one city of this tale, other very different events 
were occurring in the other city of the story — 
Paris, the French capital. 

The indifference and harsh oppression of the 
court and the nobles toward the poor had gone on 
increasing day by day, and day by day the latter 
had grown more sullen and resentful. All the 
while the downtrodden people of Paris were plot- 
ting secretly to rise in rebellion, kill the king 
and queen and all the nobles, seize their riches and 
govern France themselves. 

The center of this plotting was Defarge, the 
keeper of the wine shop, who had cared for Doc- 
tor Manette when he had first been released from 
prison. Defarge and those he trusted met and 
planned often in the very room where Mr. Lorry 
and Lucie had found her father making shoes. 
They kept a record of all acts of cruelty toward 
the poor committed by the nobility, determining 
that, when they themselves should be strong 
enough, those thus guilty should be killed, their 
fine houses burned, and all their descendants put to 
death, so that not even their names should remain 
in France. This was a wicked and awful deter- 
mination, but these poor, wretched people had been 

2>^7 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

made to suffer all their lives, and their parents 
before them, and centuries of oppression had killed 
all their pity and made them as fierce as wild beasts 
that only wait for their cages to be opened to de- 
stroy all in their path. 

They were afraid, of course, to keep any written 
list of persons whom they had thus condemned, so 
Madame Defarge, the wife of the wine seller, used 
to knit the names in fine stitches into a long piece 
of knitting that she seemed always at work on. 

Madame Defarge was a stout woman with big 
coarse hands and eyes that never seemed to look 
at any one, yet saw everything that happened. She 
was as strong as a man and every one was some- 
what afraid of her. She was even cruder and more 
resolute than her husband. She would sit knitting 
all day long in the dirty wine shop, watching and 
listening, and knitting in the names of people 
whom she hoped soon to see killed. 

One of the hated names that she knitted over and 
over again was ''Evremonde." The laborer who, 
in the madness of his grief for his dead child, had 
murdered the Marquis de St. Evremonde, Dar- 
nay's hard-hearted uncle, had been caught and 
hanged; and, because of this, Defarge and his wife 
and the other plotters had condemned all of the 
name of Evremonde to death. 

Meanwhile the king and queen of France and 
all their gay and careless court of nobles feasted 
and danced as heedlessly as ever. They did not see 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES 

the storm rising. The bitter taxes still went on. 
The wine shop of Defarge looked as peaceful as 
ever, but the men who drank there now were 
dreaming of murder and revenge. And the half- 
starved women, who sat and looked on as the gilded 
coaches of the rich rolled through the streets, were 
sullenly waiting — watching Madame Defarge as 
she silently knitted, knitted into her work names 
of those whom the people had condemned to death 
without mercy. 

One day this frightful human storm, which for 
so many years had been gathering in France, burst 
over Paris. The poor people rose by thousands, 
seized whatever weapons they could get — guns, 
axes, or even stones of the street — and, led by De- 
farge and his tigerish wife, set out to avenge their 
wrongs. Their rage turned first of all against the 
Bastille, the old stone prison in which so many of 
their kind had died, where Doctor Manette for 
eighteen years had made shoes. They beat down 
the thick walls and butchered the soldiers who de- 
fended it, and released the prisoners. And wher- 
ever they saw one of the king's uniforms they 
hanged the wearer to the nearest lamp post. It was 
the beginning of the terrible Revolution in France 
that was to end in the murder of thousands of inno- 
cent lives. It was the beginning of a time when 
Paris's streets were to run with blood, when all the 
worst passions of the people were loosed, and when 
they went mad with the joy of revenge. 
369 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

The storm spread over France — to the village 
where stood the great chateau of the Evremonde 
family, and the peasants set fire to it and burned 
it to the ground. And Gabelle (the servant who 
had been left in charge by Darnay, the new Mar- 
quis de St. Evremonde, whom they had never seen, 
but yet hated) they seized and put in prison. They 
stormed the royal palace and arrested the king and 
queen, threw all who bore noble names or titles 
into dungeons, and, as they had planned, set up a 
government of their own. 

Darnay, safe in London with Lucie, knew little 
and thought less of all this, till he received a pitiful 
letter from Gabelle, who expected each morning 
to be dragged out to be killed, telling of the plight 
into which his faithfulness had brought him, and 
beseeching his master's aid. 

This letter made Darnay most uneasy. He 
blamed himself, because he knew it was his fault 
that Gabelle had been left so long in such a dan- 
gerous post. He did not forget that his own family, 
the Evremondes, had been greatly hated. But he 
thought the fact that he himself had refused to be 
one of them, and had given his sympathy rather to 
the people they oppressed, would make it possible 
for him to obtain Gabelle's release. And with this 
idea he determined to go himself to Paris. 

He knew the very thought of his going, now that 
France was mad with violence, would frighten 
Lucie, so he determined not to tell her. He packed 
370 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES 

some clothing hurriedly and left secretly, sending 
a letter back telling her where and why he was 
going. And by the time she read this he was well 
on his way from England. 

Darnay had expected to find no trouble in his 
errand and little personal risk in his journey, but 
as soon as he landed on the shores of France he dis- 
covered his mistake. He had only to give his real 
name, "the Marquis de St. Evremonde," which 
he was obliged to do if he would help Gabelle, 
and the title was the signal for rude threats and ill 
treatment. Once in, he could not go back, and 
he felt as if a monstrous net were closing around 
him (as indeed, it was) from which there was no 
escape. 

He was sent on to Paris under a guard of sol- 
diers, and there he was at once put into prison to be 
tried — and in all probability condemned to death — 
as one of the hated noble class whom the people 
were now killing as fast as they could. 

The great room of the prison to which he was 
taken Darnay found full of ladies and gentlemen, 
most of them rich and titled, the men chatting, the 
women reading or doing embroidery, all courteous 
and polite, as if they sat in their own splendid 
homes, instead of in a prison from which most of 
them could issue only to a dreadful death. He was 
allowed to remain here only a few moments; then 
he was taken to an empty cell and left alone. 

It happened that the bank of which Mr. Lorry 
371 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

was agent had an office also in Paris, and the old 
gentleman had come there on business the day be- 
fore Darnay arrived. Mr. Lorry was an English- 
man born, and for him there was no danger. He 
knew nothing of the arrest of Darnay until a day or 
two later, when, as he sat in his room. Doctor Ma- 
nette and Lucie entered, just arrived from London, 
deeply agitated and in great fear for Darnay's 
safety. 

As soon as Lucie had read her husband's letter 
she had followed at once with her father and Miss 
Pross. Doctor Manette, knowing Darnay's real 
name and title (for, before he married Lucie, he 
had told her father everything concerning him- 
self), feared danger for him. But he had rea- 
soned that his own long imprisonment in the Bas- 
tille — the building the people had first destroyed — 
would make him a favorite, and render him able to 
aid Darnay if danger came. On the way, they 
had heard the sad news of his arrest, and had 
come at once to Mr. Lorry to consider what might 
best be done. 

While they talked, through the window they saw 
a great crowd of people come rushing into the 
courtyard of the building to sharpen weapons at 
a huge grindstone that stood there. They were go- 
ing to murder the prisoners with which the jails 
were by this time full ! 

Fearful that he would be too late to save Dar- 
nay, Doctor Manette rushed to the yard, his white 
372 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES 

hair streaming in the wind, and told the leaders 
of the mob who he was — how he had been im- 
prisoned for eighteen years in the Bastille, and that 
now one of his kindred, by some unknown error, 
had been seized. They cheered him, lifted him on 
their shoulders and rushed away to demand for 
him the release of Darnay, while Lucie, in tears, 
with Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross, waited all night 
for tidings. 

But none came that night. The rescue had not 
proved easy. Next day Defarge, the wine shop 
keeper, brought a short note to Lucie from Darnay 
at the prison, but it was four days before Doctor 
Manette returned to the house. He had, indeed, 
by the story of his own sufferings, saved Darnay's 
life for the time being, but the prisoner, he had 
been told, could not be released without trial. 

For this trial they waited, day after day. The 
time passed slowly and terribly. Prisoners were no 
longer murdered without trial, but few escaped 
the death penalty. The king and queen were be- 
headed. Thousands were put to death merely on 
suspicion, and thousands more were thrown into 
prison to await their turn. This was that dreadful 
period which has always since been called "The 
Reign of Terror," when no one felt sure of 
his safety. 

There was a certain window in the prison 
through which Darnay sometimes found a chance 
to look, and from which he could see one dingy 

272, 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

street corner. On this corner, every afternoon, 
Lucie took her station for hours, rain or shine. She 
never missed a day, and thus at long intervals her 
husband got a view of her. 

So months passed till a year had gone. All the 
while Doctor Manette, now become a well-known 
figure in Paris, worked hard for Darnay's release. 
And at length his turn came to be tried and he was 
brought before the drunken, ignorant men who 
called themselves judge and jury. 

He told how he had years before renounced 
his family and title, left France, and supported 
himself rather than be a burden on the peasantry. 
He told how he had married a woman of French 
birth, the only daughter of the good Doctor 
Manette, whom all Paris knew, and had come to 
Paris now of his own accord to help a poor servant 
who was in danger through his fault. 

The story caught the fancy of the changeable 
crowd in the room. They cheered and applauded 
it. When he was acquitted they were quite as 
pleased as if he had been condemned to be be- 
headed, and put him in a great chair and carried 
him home in triumph to Lucie. 

There was only one there, perhaps, who did not 
rejoice at the result, and that was the cold, cruel 
wife of the wine seller, Madame Defarge, who 
had knitted the name "Evremonde" so many times 
into her knitting. 



374 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES 
III 

SYDNEY carton's SACRIFICE 

That same night of his release all the happiness 
of Darnay and Lucie was suddenly broken. Sol- 
diers came and again arrested him. Defarge and 
his wife were the accusers this time, and he was 
to be retried. 

The first one to bring this fresh piece of bad 
news to Mr. Lorry was Sydney Carton, the reckless 
and dissipated young lawyer. Probably he had 
heard, in London, of Lucie's trouble, and out of his 
love for her, which he always carried hidden in his 
heart, had come to Paris to try to aid her hus- 
band. He had arrived only to hear, at the same 
time, of the acquittal and the rearrest. 

As Carton walked along the street thinking sadly 
of Lucie's new grief, he saw a man whose face and 
figure seemed familiar. Following, he soon recog- 
nized him as the English spy, Barsad, whose false 
testimony, years before in London, had come so 
near convicting Darnay when he was tried for trea- 
son. Barsad (who, as it happened, was now a turn- 
key in the very prison where Darnay was confined) 
had left London to become a spy in France, first 
on the side of the king and then on the side of the 
people. 

At the time of this story England was so hated 
by France that if the people had known of Barsad's 

375 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

career in London they would have cut ofif his head 
at once. Carton, who was well aware of this, 
threatened the spy with his knowledge and made 
him swear that if worst came to worst and Darnay 
were condemned, he would admit Carton to the cell 
to see him once before he was taken to execution. 
Why Carton asked this Barsad could not guess, 
but to save himself he had to promise. 

Next day Darnay was tried for the second time. 
When the judge asked for the accusation, Defarge 
laid a paper before him. 

It was a letter that had been found when the 
Bastille fell, in the cell that had been occupied 
for eighteen years by Doctor Manette. He had 
written it before his reason left him, and hid- 
den it behind a loosened stone in the wall; and in 
it he had told the story of his own unjust arrest. 
Defarge read it aloud to the jury. And this was 
the terrible tale it told: 

The Marquis de St. Evremonde (the cruel uncle 
of Darnay) , when he was a young man, had dread- 
fully wronged a young peasant woman, had caused 
her husband's death and killed her brother with 
his own hand. As the brother lay dying from the 
sword wound, Doctor Manette, then also a young 
man, had been called to attend him, and so, by ac- 
cident, had learned the whole. Horrified at the 
wicked wrong, he wrote of it in a letter to the 
Minister of Justice. The Marquis whom it ac- 
cused learned of this, and, to put Doctor Manette 
376 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES 

out of the way, had him arrested secretly, taken 
from his wife and baby daughter and thrown into 
a secret cell of the Bastille, where he had lived 
those eighteen years, not knowing whether his wife 
and child lived or died. He waited ten years for 
release, and when none came, at last, feeling his 
mind giving way, he wrote the account, which he 
concealed in the cell wall, denouncing the family 
of Evremonde and all their descendants. 

The reading of this paper by Defarge, as may 
be guessed, aroused all the murderous passions of 
the people in the court room. There was a further 
reason for Madame Defarge's hatred, for the poor 
woman whom Darnay's uncle had so wronged had 
been her own sister! In vain old Doctor Manette 
pleaded. That his own daughter was now Darnay's 
wife made no difference in their eyes. The jury 
at once found Darnay guilty and sentenced him to 
die by the guillotine the next morning. 

Lucie fainted when the sentence was pronounced. 
Sydney Carton, who had witnessed the trial, lifted 
her and bore her to a carriage. When they reached 
home he carried her up the stairs and laid her on 
a couch. 

Before he went, he bent down and touched her 
cheek with his lips, and they heard him whisper: 
"For a life you love!" 

They did not know until next day what he meant. 

Carton had, in fact, formed a desperate plan to 
rescue Lucie's husband, whom he so much re- 

377 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

sembled in face and figure, even though it meant 
his own death. He went to Mr. Lorry and made 
him promise to have ready next morning passports 
and a coach and swift horses to leave Paris for Eng- 
land with Doctor Manette, Lucie and himself, tell- 
ing him that if they delayed longer, Lucie's life 
and her father's also would be lost. 

Next, Carton bought a quantity of a drug whose 
fumes would render a man insensible, and with 
this in his pocket early next morning he went to 
the spy, Barsad, and bade him redeem his promise 
and take him to the cell where Darnay waited for 
the signal of death. 

Darnay was seated, writing a last letter to Lucie, 
when Carton entered. Pretending that he wished 
him to write something that he dictated. Carton 
stood over him and held the phial of the drug to 
his face. In a moment the other was unconscious. 
Then Carton changed clothes with him and called 
in the spy, directing him to take the unconscious 
man, who now seemed to be Sydney Carton in- 
stead of Charles Darnay, to Mr. Lorry's house. 
He himself was to take the prisoner's place and 
suffer the penalty. 

The plan worked well. Darnay, who would not 
have allowed this sacrifice if he had known, was 
carried safely and without discovery, past the 
guards. Mr. Lorry, guessing what had happened 
when he saw the unconscious figure, took coach at 
once with him, Doctor Manette and Lucie, and 
378 



A TALE OF TWO CITIES 

started for England that very hour. Miss Pross 
was left to follow them in another carriage. 

While Miss Pross sat waiting in the empty house, 
who should come in but the terrible Madame De- 
f arge ! The latter had made up her mind, as Carton 
had suspected, to denounce Lucie also. It was 
against the law to mourn for any one who had been 
condemned as an enemy to France, and the woman 
was sure, of course, that Lucie would be mourning 
for her husband, who was to die within the hour. 
So she stopped on her way to the execution to see 
Lucie and thus have evidence against her. 

When Madame Defarge entered, Miss Pross 
read the hatred and evil purpose in her face. The 
grim old nurse knew if it were known that Lucie 
had gone, the coach would be pursued and brought 
back. So she planted herself in front of the door 
of Lucie's room, and would not let Madame De- 
farge open it. 

The savage Frenchwoman tried to tear her away, 
but Miss Pross seized her around the waist, and 
held her back. The other drew a loaded pistol 
from her breast to shoot her, but in the struggle 
it went of]f and killed Madame Defarge herself. 

Then Miss Pross, all of a tremble, locked the 
door, threw the key into the river, took a carriage 
and followed after the coach. 

Not long after the unconscious Darnay, with 
Lucie and Doctor Manette, passed the gates of 
Paris, the jailer came to the cell where Sydney 

379 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Carton sat and called him. It was the summons 
to die. And with his thoughts on Lucie, whom he 
had always hopelessly loved, and on her husband, 
whom he had thus saved to her, he went almost 
gladly. 

A poor little seamstress rode in the death cart 
beside him. She was so small and weak that she 
feared to die, and Carton held her cold hand all 
the way and comforted her to the end. Cruel 
women of the people sat about the guillotine knit- 
ting and counting with their stitches, as each poor 
victim died. And when Carton's turn came, think- 
ing he was Darnay, the hated Marquis de St. Evre- 
monde, they cursed him and laughed. 

Men said of him about the city that night that it 
was the peacefuUest man's face ever beheld there. 
If they could have read his thought, if he could 
have spoken it in words it would have been these : 

"I see the lives, for which I lay down mine, 
peaceful and happy in that England I shall see 
no more. I see Lucie and Darnay with a child that 
bears my name, and I see that I shall hold a place 
in their hearts for ever. I see her weeping for me 
on the anniversary of this day. I see the blot I 
threw upon my name faded away, and I know that 
till they die neither shall be more honored in the 
soul of the other than I am honored in the souls 
of both. It is a far, far better thing that I do, than 
I have ever done ; it is a far, far better rest that I go 
to than I have ever known !" 



BLEAK HOUSE 

Published 1852-1853 

Scene: London and the Country 
Time: 1832 to 1852 

CHARACTERS 

]\rr. Jarndyce Master of Bleak House 

Mr. Boythorn His friend 

Sir Leicester Dedlock An aged nobleman 

Mr. Boythorn's neighbor 

Lady Dedlock His wife 

Mr. Tulkinghorn His lawyer 

Captain Hawdon. . .A dissipated and poverty-stricken copy- 
ist in London, known as "Nemo" 

Esther Summerson Mr. Jarndyce's ward 

In reality a daughter of Captain Hawdon and Lady 
Dedlock 

Ada Clare I Wards of Mr. Jarndyce 

Richard Carstone j 

Vholes Richard's lawyer 

Mrs. Rouncewell Sir Leicester's housekeeper 

"Mr. George" .... Proprietor of a London shooting-gallery 
Her son 

Hortense Lady Dedlock's French maid 

Miss Elite A little, old, demented woman 

Mrs, Jellyby A lady greatly interested in the welfare 

of the heathen 

Caddy Jellyby Her daughter 

Harold Skimpole A trifler with life, preferring to 

live at other people's expense 

Allan Woodcourt A young surgeon 

Grandfather Smallweed A money-lender 

Mrs. Smallweed His crazy wife 

Mr. Turveydrop The proprietor of a dancing school 

and a model of deportment 

Prince Turveydrop His son. Later, Caddy's husband 

Joe A crossing sweeper 

Krook A dealer in rags and old bottles 

"Lady Jane" His cat 

381 



BLEAK HOUSE 



THE COURT OF CHANCERY 

An Englishman named Jarndyce, once upon a 
time having made a great fortune, died and left 
a great will. The persons appointed to carry out 
its provisions could not agree; they fell to disput- 
ing among themselves and went to law over it. 

The court which in England decides such suits 
is called the Court of Chancery. Its action is slow 
and its delays many, so that men generally consider 
it a huge misfortune to be obliged to have anything 
to do with it. Sometimes it has kept cases unde- 
cided for many years, till the heirs concerned were 
dead and gone; and often when the decision came 
at last there was no money left to be divided, be- 
cause it had all been eaten up by the costs of the 
suit. Lawyers inherited some cases from their fa- 
thers, who themselves had made a living by them, 
and many suits had become so twisted that nobody 
alive could have told at last what they really 
meant. 

Such came to be the case with the Jarndyce will. 
It had been tried for so many years that the very 
name had become a joke. Those who began it were 
383 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

long since dead and their heirs either knew noth- 
ing of it or had given up hope of its ever being 
ended. 

The only one who seemed to be interested in 
it was a little old woman named Miss Elite, whom 
delay and despair in a suit of her own had made 
half crazy. For many years she had attended the 
Chancery Court every day and many thoughtless 
people made fun of her. 

She was wretchedly poor and lived in a small 
room over a rag-and-bottle shop kept by a man 
named Krook. Here she had a great number of 
birds in little cages — larks and linnets and gold- 
finches. She had given them names to represent 
the different things which the cruel Chancery 
Court required to carry on these shameful suits, 
such as Hope, Youth, Rest, Ashes, Ruin, Despair, 
Madness, Folly, Words, Plunder and Jargon. She 
used to say that when the Jarndyce case was de- 
cided she would open the cages and let the birds all 
go. 

The last Jarndyce that was left had given up in 
disgust all thought of the famous lawsuit and 
steadfastly refused to have anything to do with it. 
He lived quietly in the country in a big, bare build- 
ing called Bleak House. He was past middle-age, 
and his hair was silver-gray, but he was straight 
and strong and merry. 

He was rich, yet was so tender-hearted and be- 
nevolent that all who knew him loved him. Most 
384 



BLEAK HOUSE 

of his good deeds he never told, for he had a great 
dislike to being thanked. It used to be said that 
once, after he had done an extremely generous 
thing for a relative of his, seeing her coming in the 
front gate to thank him, he escaped by the back 
door and was not seen again for three months. He 
never spoke ill of his neighbors, and whenever he 
was vexed he would pretend to look for a weather- 
cock and say, "Dear, dear! The wind must be 
coming from the east!" 

It happened, finally, that all the other Jarndyce 
heirs had died except two, a young girl named Ada 
Clare and a young man named Richard Carstone. 
These two, who were cousins, were left orphans. 
The master of Bleak House, therefore, in the good- 
ness of his heart, offered them a home with him, 
and this they thankfully accepted. Mr. Jarndyce 
now wished to find a companion for Ada Clare; 
and this is how Esther Summerson comes into this 
story. 

Esther was a sweet girl who had been brought 
up by a stern, hard-hearted woman whom she had 
always called "godmother," in ignorance of her 
parentage. She had never known who were her 
mother or father, for from earliest babyhood her 
godmother had forbidden her to ask questions con- 
cerning them, and she would have had a sad and 
lonely youth but for her sunny disposition. 

It was not till her godmother died suddenly that 
she found she had a guardian, and that he was 
38s 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Mr. Jarndyce of Bleak House. How he came 
to be her guardian was a mystery to her, but she 
was glad to find herself not altogether friendless. 
Although he had taken the pains to see her more 
than once, and had noticed with pleasure what a 
cheerful, loving nature she had, yet Esther had 
never, so far as she knew, seen him, so that she re- 
ceived his invitation to come and live at Bleak 
House wdth joyful surprise. 

She went, on the day appointed, to London, and 
there she met Ada, whom she began to love at once, 
and Richard, a handsome, careless young fellow of 
nineteen. They spent the day together and got well 
acquainted before they took the morrow's coach to 
Bleak House. 

At the Chancery Court they met poor, crazy lit- 
tle Miss Elite, who insisted on taking them to her 
room above the rag-and-bottle shop to show them 
her caged birds. And that night (as they had been 
directed) they stayed at the house of a Mrs. Jellyby, 
of whom Mr. Jarndyce had heard as a woman of 
great charity. 

Mrs. Jellyby was a woman with a mission, which 
mission was the education of the natives of Bor- 
rioboola-Gha, in Africa, and the cultivation there 
of the coffee-bean. She thought of nothing else, 
and was for ever sending out letters or pamphlets 
about it. 

But she seemed unable to see or think of any- 
thing nearer home than Africa. The house was 
3S6 



BLEAK HOUSE 

unswept, the children dirty and always under foot, 
and the meals half-cooked. Shewould sit all day in 
slipshod slippers and a dress that did not meet in 
the back, drinking cofifee and dictating to her eld- 
est daughter Caddy (who hated Africa and all its 
natives) letters about cofifee cultivation and the up- 
lifting of the natives of Borrioboola-Gha. 

A very strange sort of philanthropist both Esther 
and Ada thought Mrs. Jellyby. Perhaps, however, 
Mr. Jarndyce sent them there for a useful lesson, 
for he afterward asked them w^hat they thought of 
her, and he seemed well pleased to learn that they 
considered her ideas of doing good in the world 
extremely odd. 

Next day they drove to Bleak House. Not one 
of them had ever seen Mr. Jarndyce, but they found 
him all they had imagined and more — the kindest, 
pleasantest and most thoughtful person in the 
world. Before they had been there two days they 
felt as if they had known him all their lives. 

Bleak House w^as a building where one went up 
and down steps from one room to another, and 
where there wxre always more rooms when one 
thought he had seen them all. In the daytime there 
was horseback riding or walking to amuse them, 
and in the evenings Ada often sang and played to 
the rest. Altogether the time flew by most pleas- 
antly, and, judging by Mr. Jarndyce's jollity, the 
wind seldom showed any signs of coming froni the 
east. 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

It was soon clear to everybody that Richard was 
in love with Ada and that Ada was beginning 
to love him in return. This pleased Mr. Jarndyce, 
for he was fond of both. 

But he was fondest of Esther. He made her his 
housekeeper and she carried a big bunch of keys 
and kept the house as clean as a new pin. He used 
to say she reminded him of: 

"Little old woman and whither so high? 
To sweep the cobwebs out of the sky." 

She was so cheerful, he said, she would sweep 
the cobwebs out of anybody's sky. And from this 
they took to calling her "Little Old Woman," and 
"Cobweb," and "Mother Hubbard," till none of 
them thought of her real name at all. 

Bleak House had a number of visitors who came 
more or less often. One of these was an old school 
friend of Mr. Jarndyce's, named Boythorn. He 
was a big, blustering man with a laugh as big as 
himself. Wherever he went he carried a tiny tame 
canary, that used to sit at meal-time perched on the 
top of his great shaggy head. It was odd to see this 
wee bird sitting there unafraid, even at one of his 
"ha-ha-ha's" that shook the whole house. 

Mr. Boythorn was exceedingly tender-hearted, 
but took delight in pretending to be the stubborn- 
est, most cross-grained, worst-tempered individ- 
ual possible. His neighbor was Sir Leicester Ded- 
lock, a dignified and proud old baronet, and him 



BLEAK HOUSE 

Mr. Boythorn loved to keep in perpetual anger by 
bringing against him all manner of lawsuits re- 
garding the boundary between their land. 

Another visitor whom Esther found amusing 
was Harold Skimpole, a light, bright creature of 
charming manners, with a large head and full of 
simple gaiety. He was a man who seemed to trifle 
with everything. He sang a little, composed a lit- 
tle and sketched a little. But his songs were never 
completed and his sketches never finished. 

His aim in life seemed to be to avoid all respon- 
sibility, and to find some one else to pay his debts. 
He always spoke of himself as a "child," though he 
was middle-aged. He claimed to have no idea 
whatever of the value of money. He would take 
a handful of coins from his pocket and say laugh- 
ing, "Now, there's some money. I have no idea 
how much. I don't know how to count it. I dare 
say I owe more than that. If good-natured people 
don't stop letting me owe them, why should I? 
There you have Harold Skimpole." Mr. Jarn- 
dyce was far too honest and innocent himself 
to see through the man's hollow selfishness 
and was continually paying his debts, as they soon 
learned. 

Most of all Bleak House's visitors, Esther came 
to like Allan Woodcourt, a handsome dark-haired 
young surgeon, and before long she found herself 
unconsciously looking and longing for his coming. 
Woodcourt was poor, however, and although he 
389 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

was in love with Esther he did not tell her, but soon 
sailed away on a long voyage as a ship's doctor. 



II 

LADY DEDLOCK'S SECRET 

Sir Leicester Dedlock, whom Mr. Boythorn so 
loved to torment, was seventy years old. His wife, 
many years younger than himself, he had married 
for love. Lady Dedlock was not noble by birth — 
no one, indeed, knew who she had been before her 
marriage — but she was very beautiful. She was as 
proud and haughty, too, as she was lovely, and was 
much sought after. But with all her popularity 
she had few close friends, and no one in whom she 
confided. 

Even her housekeeper, Mrs. Rouncewell, a fine, 
handsome old woman who had been Sir Leicester's 
servant for fifty years, thought her cold and re- 
served. Mrs. Rouncewell herself had had a son 
George, who many years before had gone off to be 
a soldier and had never come back; and, looking at 
her mistress's face, she often wondered if the 
shadow of pain there was the mark of some old 
grief or loss of which no one knew. However that 
may have been, the old baronet loved his wife and 
was very proud of her. 

Sir Leicester's family lawyer was named Tulk- 
inghorn. He was a dull, dignified man who al- 
390 



BLEAK HOUSE 

ways dressed in black and seldom spoke unless he 
had to. His one passion was the discovery of other 
people's secrets. He knew more family secrets than 
any one else in London, and to discover a new one 
he would have risked all his fortune. 

Now, among the very many persons connected in 
some way or other with the famous Jarndyce case, 
which seemed destined never to end, was Sir 
Leicester Dedlock, and one day (the Chancery 
Court having actually made a little progress) Mr. 
Tulkinghorn brought the baronet some legal 
papers to read to him. 

As the lawyer held one in his hand. Lady Ded- 
lock, seeing the handwriting, asked in an agitated 
voice who had written it. He answered that it was 
the work of one of his copyists. A moment later, 
as he went on reading, they found that Lady Ded- 
lock had fainted away. 

Her husband did not connect her faintness with 
the paper, but Mr. Tulkinghorn did, and that in- 
stant he determined that Lady Dedlock had a 
secret, that this secret had something to do with the 
copyist, and that what this secret was, he, Tulking- 
horn, would discover. 

He easily found that the writing had been done 
by a man who called himself "Nemo," and who 
lived above Krook's rag-and-bottle shop, a neigh- 
bor to crazy little Miss Elite of the Chancery Court 
and the many bird-cages. 

Krook himself was an ignorant, spectacled old 
391 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

rascal, whose sole occupations seemed to be to 
sleep and to drink gin, a bottle of which stood al- 
ways near him. His only intimate was a big, gray, 
evil-tempered cat called "Lady Jane," who, when 
not lying in wait for Miss Elite's birds, used to sit 
on his shoulder with her tail sticking straight up 
like a hairy feather. People in the neighborhood 
called his dirty shop the "Court of Chancery," be- 
cause, like that other court, it had so many old 
things in it and whatever its owner once got into it 
never got out again. 

In return for Mr. Tulkinghorn's money Krook 
told him all he knew about his lodger. Nemo, 
it seemed, was surly and dissipated and did what 
legal copying he could get to do in order to buy 
opium with which he drugged himself daily. So 
far as was known, he had but one friend — Joe, a 
wretched crossing sweeper, to whom, when he had 
it, he often gave a coin. 

Thus much the lawyer learned, but from the 
Strange lodger himself he learned nothing. For 
when Krook took him to the room Nemo occu- 
pied, they found the latter stretched on his couch, 
dead (whether by accident or design no one could 
tell) of an overdose of opium. 

Curious to see how Lady Dedlock would receive 
this news, Mr. Tulkinghorn called on her and told 
her of the unknown man's death. She pretended to 
listen with little interest, but his trained eye saw 
that she was deeply moved by it, and he became 
392 



BLEAK HOUSE 

more anxious than ever to find out what connection 
there could be between this proud and titled 
woman and the miserable copyist who had lived 
and died in squalor. 

Chance favored Mr. Tulkinghorn's object. One 
night he saw Joe, the ragged crossing sweeper 
pointing out to a woman whose face was hid- 
den by a veil, and whose form was closely 
wrapped in a French shawl, the gate of the cem- 
etery where Nemo had been buried. Later, at 
Sir Leicester's, he saw Lady Dedlock's maid, Hor- 
tense — a black-haired, jealous French woman, 
with wolf-like ways — wearing the same shawl. 

He cunningly entrapped the maid into coming 
to his house one night wearing both veil and shawl, 
and there brought her unexpectedly face to face 
with Joe. By the boy's actions Mr. Tulkinghorn 
decided at once that Joe had never seen Hortense 
before, and that instant, he guessed the truth — that 
the veiled woman who had gone to the cemetery 
was really Lady Dedlock herself, and that she had 
worn her maid's clothes to mislead any observer. 

This was a clever trick in the lawyer, but it 
proved too clever for his own good, for, finding she 
had been enticed there for some deeper purpose, 
Hortense flew into a passion with him. He sneered 
at her and turned her out into the street, threaten- 
ing if she troubled him to have her put into prison. 
Because of this she began to hate him with a fierce- 
ness which he did not guess. 

393 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Mr. Tulkinghorn felt himself getting nearer to 
his goal. But he now had to find out who Nemo 
really had been. 

If he had only known it, Krook could have aided 
him. The old man had found a bundle of old let- 
ters in Nemo's room after his death, and these 
were all addressed to "Captain Hawdon." 

Krook himself could not read, except enough to 
spell out an address, and he had no idea what the 
letters contained. But he was quick to think the 
bundle might be worth some money. So he put it 
carefully away. 

But Mr. Tulkinghorn found out nothing from 
Krook, for one day a strange thing happened. 
Krook had drunk so much gin in his life that he 
had become perfectly soaked with alcohol, so that 
he was just like a big spongeful of it. Now, it is a 
curious fact that when a great mass of inflammable 
material is heaped together, sometimes it will sud- 
denly burst into flame and burn up all in a minute, 
without anything or anybody setting fire to it. This 
is just what happened to Krook. As he stood in the 
middle of the dirty shop, without any warning, all 
in a twinkling, he blazed up and burned, clothes 
and all, and in less time than it takes to tell it, 
there was nothing left but a little pile of ashes, a 
burnt mark in the floor and a sticky smoke that 
stuck to the window-panes and hung in the air like 
soot. And this was all the neighbors found when 
they came to search for him. 

394 



BLEAK HOUSE 

This was the end of Krook, and the rag-and- 
bottle shop was taken possession of by Grandfather 
Smallweed, a hideous, crippled money-lender, 
who had been his brother-in-law, and who at once 
went to work ransacking all the papers he could 
find on the premises. 

Grandfather Smallweed was a thin, toothless, 
wheezy, green-eyed old miser, who was so nearly 
dead from age and asthma that he had to be 
wheeled about by his granddaughter Judy. 

He had a wife who was out of her mind. Every- 
thing said in her hearing she connected with the 
idea of money. If one said, for example, "It's 
twenty minutes past noon," Mrs. Smallweed would 
at once begin to gabble: "Twenty pence! Twenty 
pounds! Twenty thousand millions of bank-notes 
locked up in a black box!" and she would not stop 
till her husband threw a cushion at her (which he 
kept beside him for that very purpose) and 
knocked her mouth shut. 

Grandfather Smallweed soon discovered the 
bundle of letters hidden back of the shelf where 
Lady Jane, Krook's big cat, slept. 

The name they bore, "Captain Hawdon," was 
familiar enough to the money-lender. Long ago, 
when Hawdon was living a dissipated life in Lon- 
don, he had borrowed money from Grandfather 
Smallweed, and this money was still unpaid when 
he had disappeared. It was said that he had fallen 
overboard from a vessel and had been drowned. 

395 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

To think now that the captain had been living 
as a copyist all these years in London, free from ar- 
rest for the debt, filled the wizened soul of the old 
man with rage. He was ready enough to talk when 
Mr. Tulkinghorn questioned him, and finally sold 
him the bundle of letters. 

The lawyer saw that they were in Lady Ded- 
lock's penmanship; it remained to prove that the 
dead Nemo had really been Captain Hawdon. 

Mr. Tulkinghorn, of course, had many speci- 
mens of the copyist's hand, and after much search 
he found a man who had once been a fellow soldier 
of the captain's. He was called "Mr. George," 
and kept a shooting-gallery. Mr. George had 
among his papers a letter once written him by Cap- 
tain Hawdon, and not knowing the purpose for 
which it was to be used, loaned it to the lawyer. 
The handwriting was the same! And thus Mr. 
Tulkinghorn knew that the copyist had really been 
Captain Hawdon and that the letters in the bundle 
had once been written to him by the woman who 
was now the haughty Lady Dedlock. 

It was a strange, sad story that the letters dis- 
closed, as Mr. Tulkinghorn, gloating over his suc- 
cess, read them, line by line. The man who had 
fallen so low as to drag out a wretched existence by 
copying law papers — whom, until she saw the 
handwriting in the lawyer's hands, she had believed 
to be dead — was a man Lady Dedlock had once 
loved, 

396 



BLEAK HOUSE 

Many years before, when a young woman, she 
had run away from home with him. A little child 
was born to them whom she named Esther. When 
she and Hawdon had separated, her sister, to hide 
from the world the knowledge of the elopement, 
had told her the baby Esther was dead, had taken 
the child to another part of the country, given her 
the name of Summerson, and, calling herself her 
godmother instead of her aunt, brought her up in 
ignorance of the truth. Years had gone by and 
Captain Hawdon was reported drowned. At 
length the little Esther's mother had met and mar- 
ried Sir Leicester Dedlock, and in his love and pro- 
tection had thought her dark past buried from 
view for ever. 

All this the pitiless lawyer read in the letters, 
and knew that Lady Dedlock's happiness was now 
in his hands. And as he thought how, with this 
knowledge, he could torture her with the fear of 
discovery, his face took on the look of a cat's when 
it plays with a mouse it has caught. 

Meanwhile Lady Dedlock had suffered much. 
The knowledge that Hawdon had not been 
drowned as she had supposed, had come to her like 
a thunderclap. And the news of his death, fol- 
lowing so soon after this discovery, had unnerved 
her. She felt Mr. Tulkinghorn's suspicious eyes 
watching her always and began to tremble in dread 
of what he might know. 

In the midst of these fears, she accidentlly dis- 

397 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

covered one day that the baby name of Esther 
Summerson of Bleak House had been, not Sum- 
merson, but Hawdon. 

This made Lady Dedlock guess the whole truth 
— that Esther was in reality her own daughter. As 
soon as she was alone, she threw herself on her 
knees in the empty room with sobs, crying: 

"Oh, my child! My child! Not dead in the first 
hours of her life, as my cruel sister told me, but 
sternly nurtured by her, after she had renounced 
me and my name! Oh, my child! My child!" 

Ill 

LITTLE JOE PLAYS A PART 

While these events, which so closely concerned 
Esther, were occurring in London, life at Bleak 
House went quietly on. Ada and Esther had be- 
come bosom friends, and both loved and respected 
Mr. Jarndyce above every one. Harold Skimpole, 
as charming and careless as ever, and as willing as 
ever that some one else should pay his debts for 
him, was often there, and whenever they went to 
the city they saw Miss Elite and Mrs. Jellyby, the 
latter still busily sending letters about the growing 
of coffee and the education of the natives of Bor- 
rioboola-Gha. 

Esther grew especially to like Caddy, the slip- 
shod daughter to whom Mrs. Jellyby dictated her 



BLEAK HOUSE 

letters. The poor girl had much good in her, and 
Esther encouraged and helped her all she could. 
Caddy finally fell in love with Prince Turvey- 
drop, a blue-eyed, flaxen-haired young man whose 
father kept a dancing school. 

Old Mr. Turveydrop, his father, was a fat man 
with a false complexion, false teeth, false whiskers, 
a wig and a padded chest. He always carried a 
cane, eye-glass and snuff-box and was so tightly 
buttoned up that when he bowed you could almost 
see creases come into the whites of his eyes. He 
thought himself a model of politeness and stood 
about to show off his clothes while he made his 
son. Prince, do all the teaching. 

Caddy was so tired of hearing about Africa that 
at last she married Prince and moved into the Tur- 
veydrop dancing school, and Mrs. Jellyby had to 
hire a boy to help her with her great plans for the 
education of the natives of Borrioboola-Gha. 

Once Esther and Ada went with Mr. Jarndyce to 
visit Mr. Boythorn — the man with the tremendous 
laugh and the pet canary — at his country house 
where he lived in one perpetual quarrel with his 
neighbor. Sir Leicester Dedlock. Esther had often 
heard of the beauty of Lady Dedlock, and one Sun- 
day in the village church she saw her. There was 
something strangely familiar in her look that re- 
minded Esther of her godmother. An odd sensa- 
tion came over her then and she felt her heart beat 
quickly. But this was before Lady Dedlock had 

399 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

guessed the truth, and Esther and she did not meet. 

Richard Carstone had soon begun to be a 
source of great anxiety to all at Bleak House. It 
was plainly to be seen that he loved Ada dearly, 
and that she loved him as well, but to Mr. Jarn- 
dyce's regret he had begun to think and dream of 
the famous chancery suit and of the fortune that 
would be his when it ended. Mr. Jarndyce, from 
his own bitter experience, hated the Chancery 
Court and everything connected with it, and saw 
with grief that Richard was growing to be a ne'er- 
do-well, who found it easier to trust in the future 
than to labor in the present. 

In spite of all advice Richard went from bad to 
worse. He began the study of medicine, soon 
changed this for law, and lastly decided to enter 
the army. He was naturally a spendthrift, and as 
long as his money lasted Harold Skimpole found 
him a very fine friend and helped him spend it. 

Skimpole also introduced to him a knavish 
lawyer named Vholes, who made him believe the 
great chancery suit must soon end in his favor, 
and who (when Richard had put the case in his 
hands) proceeded to rob him of all he had. He 
poisoned his mind, too, against Mr. Jarndyce, 
so that Richard began to think his truest friend de- 
ceitful. 

Ada saw this with pain, but she loved Richard 
above all else, and the more so when she saw him 
so wretched and deceived; and at last, without tell- 
400 



BLEAK HOUSE 

ing either Mr. Jarndyce or Esther what she was 
going to do, she went to Richard one day and mar- 
ried him, so that, as her husband, he could take the 
little fortune she possessed to pay Vholes to go on 
with the chancery suit. 

A great misfortune befell Esther about this time 
— a misfortune that came to her, strangely enough, 
through little Joe, the crossing sweeper. 

Half-starved, ragged and homeless all his life, 
Joe had never known kindness save that given to 
him by the poor copyist who had lived above 
Krook's rag-and-bottle shop. He lived (if having 
a corner to sleep in can be called living) in a filthy 
alley called "Tom-all-Alone's." It seemed to him 
that every one he met told him to "move on." The 
policeman, the shopkeepers at whose doors he 
stopped for warmth, all told him to "move on," till 
the wretched lad wondered if there was any spot in 
London where he could rest undisturbed. 

Mr. Tulkinghorn, in his search to find out the 
woman who had hired Joe to show her the cem- 
etery, had dogged him so with his detective that at 
length the lad had become frightened and left Lon- 
don for the open country. There he was taken very 
ill, and on the highway near Bleak House one 
evening Esther found him helpless and delirious 
with fever. 

Touched by his condition she had him taken at 
once to Bleak House and put to bed, intending 
when morning came to send for a doctor. 
401 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

But in the morning little Joe was missing. 
Though they searched high and low he was not to 
be found, and they decided that in his delirium he 
had taken to the road again. It was not till long 
after that Esther found his leaving had been 
brought about by Harold Skimpole, who was then 
visiting Bleak House, and who, in his selfishness, 
feared the boy might be the bearer of some con- 
tagious disease. 

This unfortunately proved to be the case. Joe's 
illness was smallpox, and a few days later a maid 
of Esther's fell ill with it. Esther nursed her day 
and night, and just as she was recovering was 
stricken with it herself. 

In her unselfishness and love for the rest, before 
unconsciousness came, she made the maid promise 
faithfully to allow no one (particularly neither 
Mr. Jarndyce nor her beloved Ada) to enter the 
room till all danger was past. 

For many days Esther hovered between life and 
death and all the time the maid kept her word. 
Caddy came from the Turveydrop dancing school 
early and late, and little Miss Elite walked the 
twenty miles from London in thin shoes to inquire 
for her. And at length, slowly, she began to grow 
well again. 

But the disease had left its terrible mark. When 
she first looked in a mirror she found that her 
beauty was gone and her face strangely altered. 

This was a great grief to her at first, but on the 
402 



BLEAK HOUSE 

day when Mr. Jarndyce came Into her sick-room 
and held her In his arms and said, "My dear, dear 
girl!" she thought, "He has seen me and Is fonder 
of me than before. So what have I to mourn for?" 
She thought of Allan Woodcourt, too, the young 
surgeon somewhere on the sea, and she was glad 
that, If he had loved her before he sailed away, he 
had not told her so. Now, she told herself, when 
they met again and he saw her so sadly changed he 
would have given her no promise he need regret. 

When she was able to travel, Esther went for a 
short stay at the house of Mr. Boythorn, and there, 
walking under the trees she grew stronger. 

One day, as she sat In the park that surrounded 
the house, she saw Lady Dedlock coming toward 
her, and seeing how pale and agitated she was, 
Esther felt the same odd sensation she had felt In 
the church. Lady Dedlock threw herself sobbing 
at her feet, and put her arms around her and kissed 
her, as she told her that she was her unhappy 
mother, who must keep her secret for the sake of 
her husband. Sir Leicester. 

Esther thought her heart must break with both 
grief and joy at once. But she comforted Lady 
Dedlock, and told her nothing would ever change 
her love for her, and they parted with tears and 
kisses. 

Another surprise of a different sort awaited 
Esther on her return to Bleak House. Mr. Jarn- 
dyce told her that he loved her and asked her if 
403 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

she would marry him. And, remembering how 
tender he had always been, and knowing that he 
loved her in spite of her disfigured face, she said 
yes. 

But one day — the very day he returned — Esther 
saw Allan Woodcourt on the street. Somehow at 
the first glimpse of him she knew that she had loved 
him all along. Then she remembered that she had 
promised to marry Mr. Jarndyce, and she began to 
tremble and ran away without speaking to Wood- 
court at all. 

But they soon met, and this time it was Joe the 
crossing sweeper who brought them together. 
Woodcourt found the poor ragged wanderer in 
the street, so ill that he could hardly walk. He had 
recovered from smallpox, but it had left him so 
weak that he had become a prey to consumption. 
The kind-hearted surgeon took the boy to little 
Miss Elite and they found him a place to stay in 
Mr. George's shooting-gallery, where they did 
what they could for him, and where Esther and 
Mr. Jarndyce came to see him. 

Joe was greatly troubled when he learned he had 
brought the smallpox to Bleak House, and one day 
he got some one to write out for him in very large 
letters that he was sorry and hoped Esther and all 
the others would forgive him. And this was his 
will. 

On the last day Allan Woodcourt sat beside him. 
"Joe, my poor fellow," he said. 
404 



BLEAK HOUSE 

"I hear you, sir, but it's dark — let me catch your 
hand." 

"Joe, can you say what I say?" 

"ril say anything as you do, sir, for I know it's 
good." 

"Our Father." 

"Our Father; yes, that's very good, sir." 

"Which art in Heaven." 

"Art in Heaven. Is the light a-comin', sir?" 

"Hallowed be thy name." 

"Hallowed be— thy " 

But the light had come at last. Little Joe was 
dead. 

IV 

ESTHER BECOMES THE MISTRESS OF BLEAK HOUSE 

When the last bit of proof was fast in his posses- 
sion Mr. Tulkinghorn, pluming himself on the 
cleverness with w^hich he had wormed his way into 
Lady Dedlock's secret, went to her at her London 
home and informed her of all he had discovered, 
delighting in the fear and dread which she could 
not help showing. She knew now that this cruel 
man w^ould always hold his knowledge over her 
head, torturing her with the threat of making it 
known to her husband. 

Some hours after he had gone home, she fol- 
lowed him there to beg him not to tell her hus- 
band w^hat he had discovered. But all was dark in 
40s 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

the lawyer's house. She rang the private bell twice, 
but there was no answer, and she returned in de- 
spair. 

By a coincidence some one else had been seen to 
call at Mr. Tulkinghorn's that same night. This 
was Mr. George, of the shooting-gallery, who came 
to get back the letter he had loaned to the lawyer. 

When morning came it was found that a dread- 
ful deed had been done that night. Mr. Tulking- 
horn was found lying dead on the floor of his pri- 
vate apartment, shot through the heart. All the 
secrets he had so cunningly discovered and gloated 
over with such delight had not been able to save his 
life there in that room. 

Mr. Tulkinghorn was so well-known that the 
murder made a great sensation. The police went at 
once to the shooting-gallery to arrest Mr. George 
and he was put into jail. 

He was able later to prove his innocence, how- 
ever, and, all in all, his arrest turned out to be a 
fortunate thing. For by means of it old Mrs. 
Rouncewell, Lady Dedlock's housekeeper, discov- 
ered that he was her own son George, who had gone 
off to be a soldier so many years before. He had 
made up his mind not to return till he was prosper- 
ing. But somehow this time had never come; bad 
fortune had followed him and he had been 
ashamed to go back. 

But though he had acted so wrongly he had never 
lost his love for his mother, and was glad to give 
406 



BLEAK HOUSE 

up the shooting-gallery and go with Mrs. Rounce- 
well to become Sir Leicester's personal attendant. 

At first, after the death of Mr. Tulkinghorn, 
Lady Dedlock had hoped that her dread and fear 
were now ended, but she soon found that this was 
not to be. The telltale bundle of letters was in the 
possession of a detective whom the cruel lawyer 
had long ago called to his aid, and the detective, 
thinking Lady Dedlock herself might have had 
something to do with the murder, thought it his 
duty to tell all that his dead employer had dis- 
covered to Sir Leicester. 

It was a fearful shock to the haughty baronet to 
find so many tongues had been busy with the name 
his wife had borne so proudly. When the detective 
finished, Sir Leicester fell unconscious, and when 
he came to his senses had lost the power to speak. 

They laid him on his bed, sent for doctors and 
went to tell Lady Dedlock, but she had disap- 
peared. 

Almost at one and the same moment the un- 
happy woman had learned not only that the detec- 
tive had told his story to Sir Leicester, but that she 
herself was suspected of the murder. These two 
blows were more than she could bear. She put on 
a cloak and veil and, leaving all her money and 
jewels behind her, with a note for her husband, 
went out into the shrill, frosty wind. The note 
read: 

"If I am sought for or accused of his murder, be- 

407 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

lieve I am wholly innocent. I have no home left. 
I will trouble you no more. May you forget me 
and forgive me." 

They gave Sir Leicester this note, and great 
agony came to the stricken man's heart. He had 
always loved and honored her, and he loved her no 
less now for what had been told him. Nor did 
he believe for a moment that she could be guilty of 
the murder. He wrote on a slate the words, "For- 
give — find," and the detective started at once to 
overtake the fleeing woman. 

He went first to Esther, to whom he told the sad 
outcome, and together they began the search. For 
two days they labored, tracing Lady Dedlock's 
movements step by step, through the pelting snow 
and wind, across the frozen wastes outside of Lon- 
don, where brick-kilns burned and where she had 
exchanged clothes with a poor laboring woman, 
the better to elude pursuit — then back to London 
again, where at last they found her. 

But it was too late. She was lying frozen in the 
snow, at the gate of the cemetery where Captain 
Hawdon, the copyist whom she had once loved, lay 
buried. 

So Lady Dedlock's secret was hidden at last by 
death. Only the detective, whose business was si- 
lence. Sir Leicester her husband, and Esther her 
daughter, knew what her misery had been or the 
strange circumstances of her flight, for the police 
soon succeeded in tracing the murder of Mr. Tulk- 



BLEAK HOUSE 

Inghorn to Hortense, the revengeful French maid 
whom he had threatened to put in prison. 

One other shadow fell on Esther's life before the 
clouds cleared away for ever. 

Grandfather Smallweed, rummaging among the 
papers in Krook's shop, found an old will, and this 
proved to be a last will made by the original Jarn- 
dyce, whose affairs the Court of Chancery had been 
all these years trying to settle. This will be- 
queathed the greater part of the fortune to Richard 
Carstone, and its discovery, of course, would have 
put a stop to the famous suit. 

But the suit stopped of its own accord, for it was 
found now that there was no longer any fortune left 
to go to law about or to be willed to anybody. All 
the money had been eaten up by the costs. 

After all the years of hope and strain, this dis- 
appointment was too much for Richard, and he 
died that night, at the very hour when poor crazed 
little Miss Elite (as she had said she would do when 
the famous suit ended) gave all her caged birds 
their liberty. 

The time came at length, after the widowed Ada 
and her baby boy had come to make their home 
with Mr. Jarndyce, when Esther felt that she 
should fulfil her promise and become the mistress 
of Bleak House. So she told her guardian she was 
ready to marry him when he wished. He ap- 
pointed a day, and she began to prepare her wed- 
ding-clothes. 

409 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

But Mr. Jarndyce, true-hearted and generous as 
he had always been, had an idea very different 
from this in his mind. He had found, on Allan 
Woodcourt's return from his voyage, that the 
young surgeon still loved Esther. His keen eye had 
seen that she loved him in return, and he w^ell knew 
that if she married him, Jarndyce, it would be be- 
cause of her promise and because her grateful 
heart could not find it possible to refuse him. So, 
wishing most of all her happiness, he determined 
to give up his own love for her sake. 

He bought a house in the town in which Wood- 
court had decided to practise medicine, remodeled 
it and named it "Bleak House," after his own. 
When it was finished in the way he knew Esther 
liked best, he took her to see it, telling her it was 
to be a present from him to the surgeon to repay 
him for his kindness to little Joe. 

Then, when she had seen it all, he told her that 
he had guessed her love for Woodcourt, and that, 
though she married the surgeon and not himself, 
she would still be carrying out her promise and 
would still become the mistress of "Bleak House." 

When she lifted her tearful face from his shoul- 
der she saw that Woodcourt was standing near 
them. 

"This is 'Bleak House,' " said Jarndyce. "This 
day I give this house its little mistress, and, before 
God, it is the brightest day of my life!" 



410 



HARD TIMES 

Published 1854 

Scene: Coketown (an English factory town) and the Coun- 
try. 
Time: About 1850 

CHARACTERS 

Mr. Gradgrind A believer in "facts" 

Mrs, Gradgrind His wife 

Louisa Their daughter 

Tom Their son 

Josiah Bounderby A pompous mill owner and banker 

Later, Louisa's husband 

"Mrs. Pegler" His mother 

Mrs. Sparsit His housekeeper 

Mr. M'Choakumchild A schoolmaster 

Sleary The proprietor of a circus 

"Signor" Jupe The clown 

Cecelia Jupe His daughter. Known as "Sissy" 

Stephen Blackpool ) , ,.,, , 

^ ^ V Mill workers 

Rachel [ 

James Harthouse A man of the world 

"Merrylegs" Signor Jupe's performing dog 



411 



HARD TIMES 



In a cheerless house called Stone Lodge, in 
Coketown, a factory town in England, where great 
weaving mills made the sky a blur of soot and 
smoke, lived a man named Gradgrind. He was an 
obstinate, stubborn man, with a square wall of a 
forehead and a wide, thin, set mouth. His head 
was bald and shining, covered with knobs like the 
crust of a plum pie, and skirted with bristling hair. 
He had grown rich in the hardware business, and 
was a school director of the town. 

He believed in nothing but "facts." Everything 
in the world to him was good only to weigh and 
measure, and wherever he went one would have 
thought he carried in his pocket a rule and scales 
and the multiplication table. He seemed a kind of 
human cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts. 

"Now, w^hat I want is facts!" he used to say to 
Mr. M'Choakumchild, the schoolmaster. "Teach 
boys and girls nothing but facts. Facts alone are 
wanted in life. Nothing else is of any service to 
anybody. Stick to facts, sir." 

He had several children whom he had brought 
413 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

up according to this system of his, and they led 
wretched lives. No little Gradgrind child had 
ever seen a face in the moon, or learned Mother 
Goose or listened to fairy stories, or read The 
Arabian Nights. They all hated Coketown, always 
rattling and throbbing with machinery; they hated 
its houses all built of brick as red as an Indian's 
face, and its black canal and river purple with 
dyes. And most of all they hated facts. 

Louisa, the eldest daughter, looked jaded, for 
her imagination was quite starved under their 
teachings. Tom, her younger brother, was defiant 
and sullen. 'T wish," he used to say, "that I could 
collect all the facts and all the figures in the world, 
and all the people who found them out, and I wish 
I could put a thousand pounds of gunpowder un- 
der them and blow them all up together!" 

Louisa was generous, and the only love she knew 
was for her selfish, worthless brother, who repaid 
her with very little affection. Of their mother they 
saw very little; she was a thin, white, pink-eyed 
bundle of shawls, feeble and ailing, and had too 
little mind to oppose her husband in anything. 

Strangely enough, Mr. Gradgrind had once had 
a tender heart, and down beneath the facts of his 
system he had it still, though it had been covered 
up so long that nobody would have guessed it. 
Least of all, perhaps, his own children. 

Mr. Gradgrind's intimate friend, — one whom he 
was foolish enough to admire, — was Josiah Boun- 
414 



HARD TIMES 

derby, a big, loud, staring man with a puffed head 
whose skin was stretched so tight it seemed to hold 
his eyes open. He owned the Coketown mills and 
a bank besides, and was very rich and pompous. 

Bounderby was a precious hypocrite, of an odd 
sort. His greatest pride was to talk continually of 
his former poverty and wretchedness, and he de- 
lighted to tell everybody that he had been born in 
a ditch, deserted by his wicked mother, and 
brought up a vagabond by a drunken grandmother 
— from which low state he had made himself 
wealthy and respected by his own unaided efforts. 

Now, this was not in the least true. As a matter 
of fact, his grandmother had been a respectable, 
honest soul, and his mother had pinched and saved 
to bring him up decently, had given him some 
schooling, and finally apprenticed him in a good 
trade. But Bounderby was so ungrateful and so 
anxious to have people think he himself deserved 
all the credit, that after he became rich he forbade 
his mother even to tell any one who she was, and 
made her live in a little shop in the country forty 
miles from Coketown. 

But in her good and simple heart the old woman 
was so proud of her son that she used to spend all 
her little savings to come into town, sometimes 
walking a good part of the way, cleanly and plainly 
dressed, and with her spare shawl and umbrella, 
just to watch him go into his fine house or to look 
in admiration at the mills or the fine bank he 
41S 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

owned. On such occasions she called herself "Mrs. 
Pegler," and thought no one else would be the 
wiser. 

The house in which Bounderby lived had no or- 
naments. It was cold and lonely and rich. He 
made his mill-hands more than earn their wages, 
and when any of them complained, he sneered that 
they wanted to be fed on turtle-soup and venison 
with a golden spoon. 

Bounderby had for housekeeper a Mrs. Sparsit, 
who talked a great deal of her genteel birth, rich 
relatives and of the better days she had once seen. 
She was a busybody, and when she sat of an evening 
cutting out embroidery with sharp scissors, her 
bushy eyebrows and Roman nose made her look 
like a hawk picking out the eyes of a very tough 
little bird. In her own mind she had set her cap at 
Bounderby. 

So firmly had Mr. Gradgrind put his trust in the 
gospel of facts which he had taught Louisa and 
Tom that he was greatly shocked one day to catch 
them (instead of studying any one of the dry sci- 
ences ending in "ology" which he made them 
learn) peeping through the knot holes in a wooden 
pavilion along the road at the performance of a 
traveling circus. 

The circus, which was run by a man named 
Sleary, had settled itself in the neighborhood for 
some time to come, and all the performers mean- 
while boarded in a near-by public house, The 
416 



HARD TIMES 

Pegasus's Arms. The show was given every day, 
and at the moment of Mr. Gradgrind's appearance 
one "Signer" Jupe, the clown, was showing the 
tricks of his trained dog, Merrylegs, and enter- 
taining the audience with his choicest jokes. 

Mr. Gradgrind, dumb with amazement, seized 
both Louisa and Tom and led them home, repeat- 
ing at intervals, with indignation: "What would 
Mr. Bounderby say!" 

This question was soon answered, for the latter 
was at Stone Lodge when they arrived. He re- 
minded Mr. Gradgrind that there was an evil in- 
fluence in the school the children attended, which 
no doubt had led them to such idle pursuits — this 
evil influence being the little daughter of Jupe, 
the circus clown. And Bounderby advised Mr. 
Gradgrind to have the child put out of the school 
at once. 

The name of the clown's little daughter was 
Cecelia, but every one called her Sissy. She was a 
dark-eyed, dark-haired, appealing child, frowned 
upon by Mr. M'Choakumchild, the schoolmaster, 
because somehow many figures would not stay in 
her head at one time. 

When the circus first came, her father, who 
loved her very much, had brought her to the Grad- 
grind house and begged that she be allowed to at- 
tend school. Mr. Gradgrind had consented. Now, 
however, at Bounderby's advice, he wished he had 
not done so, and started ofif with the other to The 
417 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Pegasus's Arms to find Signer Jupe and deny to 
little Sissy the right of any more schooling. 

Poor Jupe had been in great trouble that day. 
For a long time he had felt that he was growing 
too old for the circus business. His joints were get- 
ting stiff, he missed in his tumbling, and he could 
no longer make the people laugh as he had once 
done. He knew that before long Sleary would be 
obliged to discharge him, and this he thought he 
could not bear to have Sissy see. 

He had therefore made up his mind to leave the 
company and disappear. He was too poor to take 
Sissy with him, so, loving her as he did, he decided 
to leave her there where at least she had some 
friends. He had come to this melancholy conclu- 
sion this very day, and had sent Sissy out on an er- 
rand so that he might slip away, accompanied only 
by his dog, Merrylegs, while she was absent. 

Sissy was returning when she met Mr. Grad- 
grind and Bounderby, and came with them to find 
her father. But at the public house she met only 
sympathizing looks, for all of the performers had 
guessed what her father had done. They told her 
as gently as they could, but poor Sissy was at first 
broken-hearted in her grief and was comforted 
only by the assurance that her father would cer- 
tainly come back to her before long. 

While Sissy wept Mr. Gradgrind had been pon- 
dering. He saw here an excellent chance to put his 
"system" to the test. To take this untaught girl and 
418 



HARD TIMES 

bring her up from the start entirely on facts would 
be a good experiment. With this in view, then, he 
proposed to take Sissy to his house and to care for 
and teach her, provided she promised to have noth- 
ing further to do with the circus or its members. 

Sissy knew how anxious her father had been to 
have her learn, so she agreed, and was taken at once 
to Stone Lodge and set to work upon facts. 

But alas! Mr. Gradgrind's education seemed to 
make Sissy low-spirited, but no wiser. Every day 
she watched and longed for some message from her 
father, but none came. She was loving and lovable, 
and Louisa liked her and comforted her as well 
as she could. But Louisa was far too unhappy her- 
self to be of much help to any one else. 

Several years went by. Sissy's father had never 
returned. She had grown into a quiet, lovely girl, 
the only ray of light in that gloomy home. Mr. 
Gradgrind had realized one of his ambitions, had 
been elected to Parliament and now spent much 
time in London. Mrs. Gradgrind was yet feebler 
and more ailing. Tom had grown to be a young 
man, a selfish and idle one, and Bounderby had 
made him a clerk in his bank. Louisa, not blind to 
her brother's faults, but loving him devotedly, had 
become, in this time, an especial object of Boun- 
derby's notice. 

Indeed, the mill owner had determined to 
marry her. Louisa had always been repelled by his 
coarseness and rough ways, and when he proposed 
419 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

for her hand she shrank from the thought. If her 
father had ever encouraged her confidence she 
might then have thrown herself on his breast and 
told him all that she felt, but to Mr. Gradgrind 
marriage was only a cold fact with no romance 
in it, and his manner chilled her. Tom, in his utter 
selfishness, thought only of what a good thing it 
would be for him if his sister married his employer, 
and urged it on her with no regard whatever for 
her own liking. 

At length, thinking, as long as she had never 
been allowed to have a sentiment that could not be 
put down in black and white, that it did not much 
matter whom she married after all, and believing 
that at least it would help Tom, she consented. 

She married Bounderby, the richest man in 
Coketown, and went to live in his fine house, while 
Mrs. Sparsit, the housekeeper, angry and revenge- 
ful, found herself compelled to move into small 
rooms over Bounderby's bank. 

II 

THE ROBBERY OF BOUNDERBY'S BANK 

In one of Bounderby's weaving mills a man 
named Stephen Blackpool had worked for years. 
He was sturdy and honest, but had a stooping 
frame, a knitted brow and iron-gray hair, for in his 
forty years he had known much trouble. 
420 



HARD TIMES 

Many years before he had married; unhappily, 
for through no fault or failing of his own, his wife 
took to drink, left off work, and became a shame 
and a disgrace to the town. When she could get no 
money to buy drink with, she sold his furniture, 
and often he would come home from the mill to 
find the rooms stripped of all their belongings and 
his wife stretched on the floor in drunken slumber. 
At last he was compelled to pay her to stay away, 
and even then he lived in daily fear lest she return 
to disgrace him afresh. 

What made this harder for Stephen to bear was 
the true love he had for a sweet, patient, working 
woman in the mill named Rachel. She had an 
oval, delicate face, with gentle eyes and dark, shin- 
ing hair. She knew his story and loved him, too. 
He could not marry her, because his own wife 
stood in the way, nor could he even see or walk 
with her often, for fear busy tongues might talk of 
it, but he watched every flutter of her shawl. 

One night Stephen went home to his lodging to 
find his wife returned. She was lying drunk across 
his bed, a besotted creature, stained and splashed, 
and evil to look at. All that night he sat sleepless 
and sick at heart. 

Next day, at the noon hour, he went to his em- 
ployer's house to ask his advice. He knew the law 
sometimes released two people from the marriage 
tie when one or the other lived wickedly, and his 
whole heart longed to marry Rachel. 
421 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

But Bounderby told him bluntly that the law he 
had in mind was only for rich men, who could af- 
ford to spend a great deal of money. And he fur- 
ther added (according to his usual custom) that he 
had no doubt Stephen would soon be demanding 
the turtle-soup and venison and the golden spoon. 

Stephen went home that night hopeless, knowing 
what he should find there. But Rachel had heard 
and was there before him. She had tidied the room 
and was tending the woman who was his wife. It 
seemed to Stephen, as he saw her in her work of 
mercy, there was an angel's halo about her head. 

Soon the wretched creature she had aided passed 
out of his daily life again to go he knew not where, 
and this act of Rachel's remained to make his love 
and longing greater. 

About this time a stranger came to Coketown. 
He was James Harthouse, a suave, polished man 
of the world, good-looking, well-dressed, with a 
gallant yet indolent manner and bold eyes. 

Being wealthy, he had tried the army, tried a 
Government position, tried Jerusalem, tried yacht- 
ing and found himself bored by them all. At last 
he had tried facts and figures, having some idea 
these might help in politics. In London he had 
met the great believer in facts, Mr. Gradgrind, 
and had been sent by him to Coketown to make the 
acquaintance of his friend Bounderby. Harthouse 
thus met the mill owner, who introduced him to 
Louisa, now his wife. 

422 



HARD TIMES 

The year of married life had not been a happy 
one for her. She was reserved and watchful and 
cold as ever, but Harthouse easily saw that she was 
ashamed of Bounderby's bragging talk and shrank 
from his coarseness as from a blow. He soon per- 
ceived, too, that the only love she had for any one 
was given to Tom, though the latter little deserved 
it. In his own mind Harthouse called her father a 
machine, her brother a whelp and her husband a 
bear. 

Harthouse was attracted by Louisa's beauty no 
less than by her pride. He was without conscience 
or honor, and determined, though she was already 
married, to make her fall in love with him. He 
knew the surest way to her liking was to pretend an 
interest in Tom, and he at once began to flatter the 
sullen young fellow. Under his influence the latter 
was not long in telling the story of Louisa's mar- 
riage, and in boasting that he himself had brought 
it about for his own advancement. 

To Louisa, Harthouse spoke regretfully of the 
lad's idle habits, yet hopefully of his future, so that 
she, deeming him honestly Tom's friend, confided 
in him, telling him of her brother's love of gam- 
bling and how she had more than once paid his 
debts by selling some of her own jewelry. In such 
ways as these Harthouse, step by step, gained an 
intimacy with her. 

While Harthouse was thus setting his net, 
Stephen Blackpool, the mill worker, was on trial. 
423 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

It was a time of great dissatisfaction among 
workmen throughout the country. In many towns 
they were banding themselves together into 
"unions" in order to gain more privileges and 
higher wages from their employers. This move- 
ment in time had reached Coketown. Rachel was 
opposed to these unions, believing they would in 
the end do their members more harm than good, 
and knowing her mind, Stephen had long ago 
promised her that he would never join one. The 
day had come, however, when a workman who thus 
declined was looked on with suspicion and dislike 
by his fellows, and at length — though all had liked 
and respected Stephen — because he steadfastly re- 
fused to join the rest, he found himself shunned. 
Day after day he went to and from his work alone 
and spoken to by none, and, not seeing Rachel in 
these days, was lonely and disheartened. 

This condition of things did not escape the eye of 
Bounderby, who sent for Stephen and questioned 
him. But even in his trouble, thinking his fellow 
workmen believed themselves in the right, Stephen 
refused to complain or to bear tales of them. Boun- 
derby, in his arrogance, chose to be angry that one 
of his mill-hands should presume not to answer his 
questions and discharged him forthwith, so that 
now Stephen found himself without friends, money 
or work. 

Not wholly without friends, either, for Rachel 
was still the same. And he had gained another 
424 



HARD TIMES 

friend, too. While he told her that evening in his 
lodgings what had occurred, and that he must soon 
go in search of work in some other town, Louisa 
came to him. She had witnessed the interview in 
which her husband had discharged this faithful 
workman, had found out where he lived, and had 
made her brother Tom bring her there that she 
might tell Stephen how sorry she was and beg him 
to accept money from her to help him in his dis- 
tress. 

This kindness touched Stephen. He thanked her 
and took as a loan a small portion of the money she 
offered him. 

Tom had come on this errand with his sister in 
a sulky humor. While he listened now a thought 
came to him. As Louisa talked with Rachel, he 
beckoned Stephen from the room and told him that 
he could perhaps aid him in finding work. He told 
him to wait during the next two or three evenings 
near the door of Bounderby's bank, and promised 
that he himself would seek Stephen there and tell 
him further. 

There was no kindness, however, in this pro- 
posal. It was a sudden plan, wicked and cowardly. 
Tom had become a criminal. He had stolen money 
from the bank and trembled daily lest the theft be- 
come known. What would be easier now, he 
thought, than to hide his crime, by throwing sus- 
picion on some one else? He could force the door 
of the safe before he left at night, and drop a key 
425 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

of the bank door, which he had secretly made, in 
the street where it would afterward be found. He 
himself, then, next morning, could appear to find 
the safe open and the money missing. Stephen, he 
considered, would be just the one to throw sus- 
picion upon. 

All unconscious of this plot, Stephen in good 
faith waited near the bank during three evenings, 
walking past the building again and again, watch- 
ing vainly for Tom to appear. Mrs. Sparsit, at her 
upper window, wondered to see his bowed form 
haunting the place. Nothing came of his waiting, 
however, and the fourth morning saw him, with 
his thoughts on Rachel, trudging out of town along 
the highroad, bravely and uncomplainingly, to- 
ward whatever new lot the future held for him. 

Tom's plot worked well. Next day there was a 
sensation in Coketown. Bounderby's bank was 
found to have been robbed. The safe, Tom de- 
clared, he had found open, with a large part of its 
contents missing. A key to the bank door was 
picked up in the street; this, it was concluded, the 
thief had thrown away after using. Who had done 
it? Had any suspicious person been seen about the 
place? 

Many people remembered a strange old woman, 
apparently from the country, who called herself 
"Mrs. Pegler," and who had often been seen stand- 
ing looking fixedly at the bank. What more natural 

than to suspect her? 

426 



HARD TIMES 

Then another rumor began to grow. Stephen 
Blackpool, discharged from the mill by Bounderby 
himself — the workman who had been shunned by 
all his comrades, to whom no one spoke — he had 
been seen recently loitering, night after night, near 
the robbed bank. Where was he? Gone, none knew 
where! 

In an hour Stephen was suspected. By the next 
day half of Coketown believed him guilty. 

Ill 

harthouse's plan fails 

Two persons, however, had a suspicion of the 
truth. One of these was the porter of the bank, 
whose suspicion was strong. The other was Louisa, 
who, though her love denied it room, hid in her 
secret heart a fear that her brother had had a share 
in the crime. In the night she went to Tom's bed- 
side, put her arms around him and begged him to 
tell her any secret he might be keeping from her. 
But he answered sullenly that he did not know 
what she meant. 

Mrs. Sparsit's fine-bred nerves (so she insisted) 
were so shaken by the robbery that she came to 
Bounderby's house to remain till she recovered. 

The feeble, pink-eyed bundle of shawls that was 
Mrs. Gradgrind, happening to die at this time, and 
Louisa being absent at her mother's funeral, Mrs. 
427 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Sparsit saw her opportunity. She had never for- 
given Louisa for marrying Bounderby, and she 
now revenged herself by a course of such flattery 
that the vulgar bully began to think his cold, proud 
wife much too regardless of him and of his impor- 
tance. 

What pleased the hawk-faced old busybody most 
was the game the suave Harthouse was playing, 
which she was sharp enough to see through at once. 
If Louisa would only disgrace herself by running 
away with Harthouse, thought Mrs. Sparsit, Boun- 
derby might be free again and she might marry 
him. So she watched narrowly the growing inti- 
macy between them, hoping for Louisa's ruin. 

There came a day when Bounderby was sum- 
moned on business to London, and Louisa stayed 
meanwhile at the Bounderby country house, which 
lay some distance from Coketown. Mrs. Sparsit 
guessed that Harthouse would use this chance to 
see Louisa alone, and, to spy upon her, took the 
train herself, reaching there at nightfall. 

She went afoot from the station to the grounds, 
opened the gate softly and crept close to the house. 
Here and there in the dusk, through garden and 
wood, she stole, and at length she found what she 
sought. There under the trees stood Harthouse, his 
horse tied near by, and talking with him was 
Louisa. 

Mrs. Sparsit stood behind a tree, like Robinson 
Crusoe in his ambuscade against the savages, and 
428 



HARD TIMES 

listened with all her ears. She could not hear all, 
but caught enough to know that he was telling her 
he loved her, and begging her to leave her hus- 
band, her home and friends, and to run away with 
him. 

In her delight and in the noise of rain upon the 
foliage (for a thunder-storm was rolling up) Mrs. 
Sparsit did not catch Louisa's answer. Where and 
when Harthouse asked her to join him, she could 
not hear, but as he mounted and rode away she 
thought he said "To-night." 

She waited in the rain, rejoicing, till her patience 
was at length rewarded by seeing Louisa, cloaked 
and veiled as if for a journey, come from the house 
and go toward the railroad station. Then Mrs. 
Sparsit, drawing her draggled shawl over her head 
to hide her face, followed, boarded the same train, 
and hastened to tell the news of his wife's elope- 
ment to Bounderby in London. 

Wet to the skin, her feet squashing in her shoes, 
her clothes spoiled and her bonnet looking like an 
over-ripe fig, with a terrible cold that made her 
voice only a whisper, and sneezing herself almost 
to pieces, Mrs. Sparsit found Bounderby at his city 
hotel, exploded with the combustible information 
she carried and fainted quite away on his coat 
collar. 

Furious at the news she brought, Bounderby 
hustled her into a fast train, and together, he raging 

and glaring and she inwardly jubilant, they hur- 
429 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

ried toward Coketown to inform Mr. Gradgrind, 
who was then at home, of his daughter's doings. 

But where, meanwhile, was Louisa? Not run 
away with Harthouse, as Mrs. Sparsit so fondly- 
imagined, but safe in her own father's house in 
Coketown. 

She had suffered much without complaint, but 
Harthouse's proposal had been the last straw. Ad- 
ded to all the insults she had suflfered at her hus- 
band's hands, and her fearful suspicion of Tom's 
guilt, it had proven too much for her to bear. 
She had pretended to agree to Harthouse's plan . 
only that she might the more quickly rid herself 
of his presence. 

Mr. Gradgrind, astonished at her sudden arrival 
at Stone Lodge, was shocked no less at her ghastly 
appearance than by what she said. She told him 
she cursed the hour when she had been born to 
grow up a victim to his teachings; that her whole 
life had been empty; that every hope, affection and 
fancy had been crushed from her very infancy and 
her better angel made a demon. She told him the 
whole truth about her marriage to Bounderby — 
that she had married him solely for the advance- 
ment of Tom, the only one she had ever loved — 
and that now she could no longer live with her hus- 
band or bear the life she had made for herself. 

And when she had said this, Louisa, the daugh- 
ter his "system" had brought to such despair, fell 
at his f^et. 

430 



HARD TIMES 

At her pitiful tale the tender heart that Mr. 
Gradgrind had buried in his long-past youth under 
his mountain of facts stirred again and began to 
beat. The mountain crumbled away, and he saw in 
an instant, as by a lightning flash, that the plan of 
life to which he had so rigidly held was a complete 
and hideous failure. He had thought there was but 
one wisdom, that of the head; he knew at last that 
there was a deeper wisdom of the heart also, which 
all these years he had denied! 

When she came to herself, Louisa found her 
father sitting by her bedside. His face looked 
worn and older. He told her he realized at last 
his life mistake and bitterly reproached himself. 
Sissy, too, was there, her love shining like a beauti- 
ful light on the other's darkness. She knelt beside 
the bed and laid the weary head on her breast, and 
then for the first time Louisa burst into sobs. 

Next day Sissy sought out Harthouse, who was 
w^aiting, full of sulky impatience at the failure of 
Louisa to appear as he had expected. Sissy told 
him plainly what had occurred, and that he should 
never see Louisa again. Harthouse, realizing that 
his plan had failed, suddenly discovered that he 
had a great liking for camels, and left the same 
hour for Egypt, never to return to Coketown. 

It was while Sissy was absent on this errand of 
her own that the furious Bounderby and the tri- 
umphant Mrs. Sparsit, the latter voiceless and still 
sneezing, appeared at Stone Lodge. 

431 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Mr. Gradgrind took the mill owner greatly 
aback with the statement that Louisa had had no 
intention whatever of eloping and was then in that 
same house and under his care. Angry and blus- 
tering at being made such a fool of, Bounderby 
turned on Mrs. Sparsit, but in her disappointment 
at finding it a mistake, she had dissolved in tears. 
When Mr. Gradgrind told him he had concluded 
it would be better for Louisa to remain for some 
time there with him, Bounderby flew into a still 
greater rage and stamped ofT, swearing his wife 
should come home by noon next day or not at all. 

To be sure Louisa did not go, and next day Boun- 
derby sent her clothes to Mr. Gradgrind, adver- 
tised his country house for sale, and, needing some- 
thing to take his spite out upon, redoubled his ef- 
forts to find the robber of the bank. 

And he began by covering the town with printed 
placards, offering a large regard for the arrest of 
Stephen Blackpool. 

IV 

STEPHEN'S RETURN 

Rachel had known, of course, of the rumors 
against Stephen, and had been both indignant and 
sorrowful. She alone knew where he was, and how 
to find him, for deeming it impossible, because of 
his trouble with the Coketown workmen, to get 
work under his own name, he had taken another. 
432 



HARD TIMES 

Now that he was directly charged with the 
crime, she wrote him the news at once, so that he 
might lose no time in returning to face the unjust 
accusation. Being so certain herself of his inno- 
cence, she made no secret of what she had done, and 
all Coketown waited, wondering whether he would 
appear or not. 

Two days passed and he had not come, and then 
Rachel told Bounderby the address to which she 
had written him. Messengers were sent, who came 
back with the report that Stephen had received her 
letter and had left at once, saying he was going to 
Coketown, where he should long since have ar- 
rived. 

Another day with no Stephen, and now almost 
every one believed he was guilty, had taken 
Rachel's letter as a warning and had fled. All the 
while Tom waited nervously, biting his nails and 
with fevered lips, knowing that Stephen, when he 
came, would tell the real reason why he had loi- 
tered near the bank, and so point suspicion to him- 
self. 

On the third day Mrs. Sparsit saw a chance to 
distinguish herself. She recognized on the street 
"Mrs. Pegler," the old countrywoman who also 
had been suspected. She seized her and, regard- 
less of her entreaties, dragged her to Bounderby's 
house and into his dining-room, with a curious 
crowd flocking at their heels. 

She plumed herself on catching one of the rob- 

433 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

bers, but what was her astonishment when the old 
woman called Bounderby her dear son, pleading 
that her coming to his house was not her fault and 
begging him not to be angry even if people did 
know at last that she was his mother. 

Mr. Gradgrind, who was present when they en- 
tered, having always heard Bounderby tell such 
dreadful tales of his bringing-up, reproached her 
for deserting her boy in his infancy to a drunken 
grandmother. At this the old woman nearly burst 
with indignation, calling on Bounderby himself to 
tell how false this was and how she had pinched 
and denied herself for him till he had begun to be 
successful. 

Everybody laughed at this, for now the true 
story of the bullying mill owner's tales was out. 
Bounderby, who had turned very red, was the 
only one who did not seem to enjoy the scene. 
After he had wrathfuUy shut every one else from 
the house, he vented his anger on Mrs. Sparsit for 
meddling (as he called it) with his own family 
affairs. He ended by giving her the wages due her 
and inviting her to take herself off at once. 

So Mrs. Sparsit, for all her cap-setting and spy- 
ing, had to leave her comfortable nest and go to live 
in a poor lodging as companion to the most grudg- 
ing, peevish, tormenting one of her noble relatives, 
an invalid with a lame leg. 

But meanwhile another day had passed — the 
fourth since Rachel had sent her letter — and still 

434 



HARD TIMES 

Stephen had not come. On this day, full of her 
trouble, Rachel had wandered with Sissy, now her 
fast friend, some distance out of the town, through 
some fields where mining had once been carried on. 

Suddenly she cried out — she had picked up a hat 
and inside it was the name "Stephen Blackpool." 
An instant later a scream broke from her lips that 
echoed over the country-side. Before them, at 
their very feet, half-hidden by rubbish and grasses, 
yawned the ragged mouth of a dark, abandoned 
shaft. That instant both Rachel and Sissy guessed 
the truth — that Stephen, returning, had not seen 
the chasm in the darkness, and had fallen into its 
depths. 

They ran and roused the town. Crowds came 
from Coketown. Rope and windlass were brought 
and two men were lowered into the pit. The poor 
fellow was there, alive but terribly injured. A 
rough bed was made, and so at last the crushed and 
broken form was brought up to the light and air. 

A surgeon was at hand with wine and medicines, 
but it was too late. Stephen spoke with Rachel 
first, then called Mr. Gradgrind to him and asked 
him to clear the blemish from his name. He told 
him simply that he could do so through his son 
Tom. This was all. He died while they bore him 
home, holding the hand of Rachel, whom he loved. 

Stephen's last words had told the truth to Mr. 
Gradgrind. He read in them that his own son was 
the robber. Tom's guilty glance had seen also. 

435 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

With suspicion removed from Stephen, he felt his 
own final arrest sure. 

Sissy noted Tom's pale face and trembling 
limbs. Guessing that he would attempt flight too 
late, and longing to save the heartbroken father 
from the shame of seeing his son's arrest and im- 
prisonment, she drew the shaking thief aside and 
in a whisper bade him go at once to Sleary, the 
proprietor of the circus to which her father had 
once belonged. She told him where the circus was 
to be found at that season of the year, and bade 
him ask Sleary to hide him for her sake till she 
came. Tom obeyed. He disappeared that night, 
and later Sissy told his father what she had done. 

Mr. Gradgrind, with Sissy and Louisa, followed 
as soon as possible, intending to get his son to the 
nearest seaport and so*out of the country on a ves- 
sel, for he knew that soon he himself, Tom's father, 
would be questioned and obliged to tell the truth. 
They traveled all night, and at length reached the 
town where the circus showed. 

Sleary, for Sissy's sake, had provided Tom with 
a disguise in which not even his father recognized 
him. He had blacked his sullen face and dressed 
him in a moth-eaten greatcoat and a mad cocked 
hat, in which attire he played the role of a black 
servant in the performance. Tom met them, grimy 
and defiant, ashamed to meet Louisa's eyes, brazen 
to his father, anxious only to be saved from his 
deserved punishment. 

436 



HARD TIMES 

A seaport was but three hours away. He was 
soon dressed and plans for his departure were com- 
pleted. But at the last moment danger appeared. 
It came in the person of the porter of Bounderby's 
bank, who had all along suspected Tom. He had 
watched the Gradgrind house, followed its master 
when he left and now laid hands on Tom, vowing 
he would take him back to Coketown. 

In this moment of the father's despair, Sleary the 
showman saved the day for the shivering thief. He 
agreed with the porter that as Tom was guilty of a 
crime he must certainly go with him, and he of- 
fered, moreover, to drive the captor and his pris- 
oner at once to the nearest railroad station. He 
winked at Sissy as he proposed this, and she was not 
alarmed. The porter accepted the proposal at once, 
but he did not guess what the showman had in 
mind. 

Sleary's horse was an educated horse. At a cer- 
tain word from its owner it would stop and begin 
to dance, and would not budge from the spot till 
he gave the command in a particular way. He had 
an educated dog, also, that would do anything it 
was told. With this horse hitched to the carriage 
and this dog trotting innocently behind, the show- 
man set off with the porter and Tom, while Mr. 
Gradgrind and Louisa, whom Sissy had told to 
trust in Sleary, waited all night for his return. 

It was morning before Sleary came back, with 
the news that Tom was undoubtedly safe from pur- 

437 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

suit, if not already aboard ship. He told them how, 
at the word from him, the educated horse had be- 
gun to dance ; how Tom had slipped down and got 
away, while the educated dog, at his command, 
had penned the frightened porter in the carriage 
all night, fearing to stir. 

Thus Tom, who did not deserve any such good 
luck, got safely away, but though his father was 
spared the shame of ever seeing his son behind the 
bars of a jail, yet he was a broken man ever after 
the truth became known. 

What was the fate of all these? Bounderby, a 
bully to the last, died of a fit five years afterward, 
leaving his entire fortune to the perpetual support 
of twenty-five humbugs, each of whom was re- 
quired to take the name of "Josiah Bounderby of 
Coketown." Louisa never remarried, but lived to 
be the comfort of her father and the loving com- 
rade of Sissy Jupe. Sissy never found her father, 
and when at last Merrylegs, his wonderful dog, 
came back alone to die of old age at Sleary's feet, 
all knew that his master must be dead. Tom died, 
softened and penitent, in a foreign land. Rachel 
remained the same pensive little worker, always 
dressed in black, beloved by all and helping every 
one, even Stephen's besotted wife. 

As for Mr. Gradgrind, a white-haired, decrepit 
old man, he forgot all the facts on which he had so 
depended, and tried for ever after to mingle his 
life's acts with Faith, Hope and Charity. 
438 



THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD 

Published 1870 

Scene: London and Cloisterham, a Neighboring Town 
Time: About 1865 

CHARACTERS 

Edwin Drood A young engineer 

John Jasper His uncle and guardian. A choir master 

Rosa Bud An orphan girl, engaged to marry Drood 

Known as "Rosebud" 

Mr. Grewgious A lawyer. Her guardian 

Miss Twinkleton The principal of the Young Ladies' 

Seminary in Cloisterham 

The Reverend Mr. Crisparkle A minister 

Neville Landless Mr. Crisparkle's pupil 

Helena His twin sister 

Rosebud's room-mate in the seminary 

Luke Honeythunder A self-styled "philanthropist" and 

bore. Guardian of Neville and Helena 

Lieutenant Tartar A retired naval officer 

"Dick Datchery" A detective 

Durdles A stone-mason and chiseler of tombstones 

"The Deputy" A street Arab 



439 



THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD 



JOHN JASPER 

In the quiet town of Cloisterham, in England, 
in a boarding-school, once lived a beautiful girl 
named Rosa Bud — an amiable, wilful, winning, 
whimsical little creature whom every one called 
Rosebud. She was an orphan. Her mother had 
been drowned when she was only seven years old 
and her father had died of grief on the first an- 
niversary of that day. 

Her father's friend and college mate, a Mr. 
Drood, had comforted his last hours, and they 
had agreed between them that when Rosebud was 
old enough she should marry Mr. Drood's son Ed- 
win, then a little boy. Her father put this wish 
in his will, as did Mr. Drood, who died also soon 
after his friend, and so Rosebud and Edwin Drood 
grew up knowing that, though not bound in any 
way, each was intended for the other. So it came 
about that, while if they had been let alone they 
might have fallen in love naturally, yet as it was 
they were always shy and ill at ease with one an- 
other. Yet they liked each other, too. 

Rosebud's guardian was a Mr. Grewgious, an 
441 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

arid, sandy man who looked as if he might be 
put in a grinding-mill and turned out first-class 
snuff. He had scanty hair like a yellow fur tippet, 
and deep notches in his forehead, and was very 
near-sighted. He seemed to have been born old, 
so that when he came to London to call on Rose- 
bud amid all the school-girls he used to say he 
felt like a bear with the cramp. Grewgious, how- 
ever, under his oddity had a very tender heart, 
particularly for Rosebud, whose mother he had 
been secretly in love with before she married. But 
he had grown up a dry old bachelor, living in 
gloomy rooms in London, and no one would have 
guessed him ever to have been a bit romantic. 

The school Rosebud attended was called Nun's 
House. Miss Twinkleton, the prim old maid who 
managed it, termed it a "Seminary for Young 
Ladies." It had a worn front, with a shining brass 
door-plate that made it look at a distance like a 
battered old beau with a big new eye-glass stuck in 
his blind eye. Here Rosebud lived a happy life, 
the pet of the whole seminary, till she was a young 
lady. 

Cloisterham was a dull, gray town with an an- 
cient cathedral, which was so cold and dark and 
damp that looking into its door was like looking 
down the throat of old Father Time. The cathe- 
dral had a fine choir, which sang at all the ser- 
vices and was taught and led by a music-master 
whose name was John Jasper. This Jasper, as it 
442 



THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD 

happened, was the uncle and guardian of Edwin 
Drood. 

Drood, who was studying to be an engineer, was 
very fond of his uncle and came often to Cloister- 
ham to visit him, so that Rosebud saw a great deal 
of her intended husband. He always called her 
"Pussy." He used to call on her at the school and 
take her walking and buy her candy at a Turkish 
shop, called "Lum.ps of Delight," and did his best 
to get on well with her, though he felt awkward. 

Drood and Jasper were much more like two 
friends than like uncle and nephew, for the choir 
master was very little older than the other. 

Jasper seemed to be wonderfully fond of Drood, 
and every one who knew him thought him a most 
honorable and upright man; but in reality he was 
far different. At heart he hated the cathedral and 
the singing, and wished often that he could find 
relief, like some old monk, in carving demons out 
of the desks and seats. He had a soul that was 
without fear or conscience. 

One vile and wicked practice he had which he 
had hidden from all who knew him. He was an 
opium smoker. He would steal away to London 
to a garret kept by a mumbling old woman who 
knew the secret of mixing the drug, and there, 
stretched on a dirty pallet, sometimes with a 
drunken Chinaman or a Lascar beside him, would 
smoke pipe after pipe of the dreadful mixture that 
stole away his senses and left him v/orse than be- 

443 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

fore. Hours later he would awake, give the woman 
money and hurry back to Cloisterham just in time, 
perhaps, to put on his church robes and lead the 
cathedral choir. 

Though no one knew of this, and though Ed- 
win Drood thought his uncle was well-nigh per- 
fect, Rosebud, after she grew up, had no liking 
for Jasper. He gave her music lessons and every 
time they met he terrified her. She felt some- 
times that he haunted her thoughts like a dreadful 
ghost. He seemed almost to make a slave of her 
with his looks, and she felt that in every glance 
he was telling her that he, Jasper, loved her and 
yet compelled her to keep silence. But, though 
disliking the choir master so, and shivering when- 
ever he came near her. Rosebud did not Icnow how 
to tell Edwin, who she knew loved and believed 
in Jasper, of her feelings. 

II 

THE COMING OF NEVILLE LANDLESS 

One of the ministers in charge of the cathedral 
was the Reverend Mr. Crisparkle, a ruddy, young, 
active, honest fellow, who was perpetually prac- 
tising boxing before the looking-glass or pitching 
himself head-foremost into all the streams about 
the town for a swim, even when it was winter and 
he had to break the ice with his head. 

444 



THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD 

Mr. Crisparkle sometimes took young men into 
his home to live while he tutored them to prepare 
them for college. One day he received word from 
a Mr. Luke Honeythunder in London, telling him 
he was about to bring to Cloisterham a twin 
brother and sister, Neville and Helena Landless, 
the young man to be taught by Mr. Crisparkle and 
his sister Helena to be put in Miss Twinkleton's 
seminary. 

This Luke Honeythunder called himself a 
philanthropist, but he was a queer sort of one, 
indeed. He was always getting up public meetings 
and talking loudly, insisting on everybody's think- 
ing exactly as he did, and saying dreadful things 
of them if they did not. 

Helena and Neville Landless had been born in 
Ceylon, where as little children they had been 
cruelly treated by their stepfather. But they had 
brave spirits, and four times in six years they had 
run away, only to be brought back each time and 
punished. On each of these occasions (the first had 
been when they were but seven years old) Helena 
had dressed as a boy and once had even tried to cut 
off her long hair with Neville's pocket-knife. At 
length their cruel stepfather died, and they were 
sent to England, where for no other reason than 
that his name was continually appearing in the 
newspapers, Mr. Honeythunder had been ap- 
pointed their guardian. 

No wonder the brother and sister had grown 

445 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

up thinking everybody was their enemy. They 
were quite prepared to hate Mr. Crisparkle when 
their guardian brought them. But by the time Mr. 
Honeythunder had gone (and Mr. Crisparkle was 
as glad as they were when he went hom.e) they 
liked the young minister and felt that they would 
be happy there. They were a handsome pair, and 
Mr. Crisparkle was attracted to them both. Nev- 
ille was lithe, and dark and rich in color; Helena 
was almost like a gypsy, slender, supple and quick. 
Both seemed half shy, half defiant, as though their 
blood were untamed. 

To make them welcome that first evening, Mr. 
Crisparkle invited to his house Jasper, the choir 
master, with Edwin Drood, who was visiting him, 
and Rosebud from the seminary. Before they 
parted Rosebud was asked to sing. 

Jasper played her accompaniment, and while 
she sang he watched her lips intently. All at once, 
to their great astonishment. Rosebud covered her 
face with her hands and, crying out, "I can't bear 
this! I am frightened! Take me away!" burst 
into tears. 

Helena, the new-comer, who had liked Rosebud 
at first sight, seemed to understand her better than 
any one else. She laid her on a sofa, soothed her, 
and in a few moments Rosebud seemed again as 
usual. Mr. Crisparkle and Edwin Drood thought 
it only a fit of nervousness. To her relief, they 
made light of the matter, and so the evening ended. 
446 



THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD 

But later, at Nun's House, where she and Hel- 
ena were to be room-mates, Rosebud told her new 
friend how much she disliked Jasper and how his 
eyes terrified her, and how, as she sang, with his 
eyes watching her lips, she felt as if he had kissed 
her. 

While the two girls were talking of this, Nev- 
ille and Edwin Drood, who had gone with them 
as far as the door of the seminary, were walk- 
ing back together. Mr. Crisparkle had told Nev- 
ille of Drood's betrothal to Rosebud, and Nev- 
ille now spoke of it. Drood, who had felt all along 
that he and Rosebud did not get along well to- 
gether and who was sensitive on the subject, was 
unjustly angry that the other should so soon know 
what he considered his own private affair. He 
answered in a surly way and, as both were quick- 
tempered, they soon came to high words. 

As it happened, Jasper was walking near, and, 
overhearing, came between them. He reproved 
them good-naturedly and took them to his rooms, 
where he insisted they should drink a glass of wine 
with him to their good fellowship. There he did a 
dastardly thing. He mixed with the wine a drug 
which, once drunk, aroused their angry passions. 
Their speech grew thick and the quarrel began 
again. Safe now from any spectator, Jasper did 
not attempt to soothe them. He let them go on until 
they were about to come to blows. Then, pretend- 
ing the greatest indignation, he threw himself upon 

447 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

Neville and forced him, hatless, from the 
house. 

In the cool night air Neville's strange dizziness, 
and with it his rage, cleared away. He realized 
that the blame for the quarrel had been Jasper's, 
but he did not guess the drugging of the wine and 
could not explain the incident even to himself. 
He went, however, manfully and sorrowfully to 
Mr. Crisparkle and told him what had occurred, 
and naturally Mr. Crisparkle, who had never 
found Edwin Drood quarrelsome, thought it the 
fault of Neville's hot blood and revengeful char- 
acter. 

He was the more certain of this when Jasper 
came to him, bringing Neville's hat, and told him 
his own story of the meeting. Jasper told him 
falsely that Neville had made a murderous attack 
on Drood, and but for him would have laid his 
nephew dead at his feet. He warned the minister 
that Neville had a tigerish nature and would yet be 
guilty of terrible crime. Mr. Crisparkle liked 
Neville, and all this saddened him, for he had not 
the least suspicion that Jasper was lying for a cruel 
purpose of his own. 

The afifair was an unhappy one for Neville. 
Jasper took care that the story spread abroad, and 
as it went it grew, so that almost everybody in 
Cloisterham came to consider Helena's brother 
a sullen fellow of a furious temper. And they be- 
lieved it the more because Neville made no secret 
448 



THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD 

of the fact that he had fallen in love, too, with 
Rosebud, and in this they thought they saw a rea- 
son for his hating Edwin Drood. 

Mr. Crisparkle was a faithful friend. He con- 
cluded soon that the fault was not all on Neville's 
side. But he was anxious to have the two young 
men friends, and he begged his pupil for his own 
part to lay aside the ill feeling. He went to the 
choir master also on the same errand, and Jasper 
assured him that his nephew would do the same. 
He even promised, hypocritically, that to bring 
this about he would invite both Edwin Drood and 
Neville to dine with him on Christmas Eve, in his 
own rooms, where they might meet and shake 
hands. 

Both young men promised to come to the din- 
ner, and Mr. Crisparkle was highly pleased, little 
dreaming what the outcome would be. 



Ill 

THE CHOIR master's DINNER 

There was a quaint character in Cloisterham 
named Durdles. He was a stone-mason whose spe- 
cialty w^as the chiseling of tombstones. He was an 
old bachelor and was both a very skilful workman 
and a very great sot. He had keys to all the cathe- 
dral vaults and was fond of prowling about the old 
pile and its dismal crypt, for ever tap-tapping, with 

449 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

a little hammer he carried, on its stones and walls, 
hunting for forgotten cavities, in which, perhaps, 
centuries before, persons had been buried. He 
wore a coarse flannel suit with horn buttons and a 
yellow handkerchief with draggled ends, and it 
was a daily sight to see him perched on a tombstone 
eating his dinner out of a bundle. When he was 
not feeling well he used to say he had a touch of 
"tomb-atism," instead of rheumatism. 

Durdles was drunk so much that he was never 
certain about getting home at night, so he had 
hired, at a penny a day, a hideous small boy, 
known as "The Deputy" to throw stones at him 
whenever he found him out of doors after ten 
o'clock, and drive him home to his little hole of an 
unfurnished stone house. 

The Deputy used to watch for Durdles after this 
hour, and when he saw him he would dance up 
and sing: 

"Widdy, widdy, wen ! 
I ketches — him — out — arter ten ! 
Widdy, widdy wy ! 
When he — don't — go — then — I shy ! 
Widdy, widdy, Wake-Cock- Warning !" 

It was a part of the bargain that he must give 
this warning before he began to throw the stones, 
and when Durdles heard this yell he knew what 
was coming. 

Before the Christmas Eve dinner Jasper picked 
450 



THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD 

a friendship with Durdles, and, pretending he 
wanted to make a trip by moonlight with him 
among the vaults, he persuaded him one night 
to be his guide. While they were in the crypt of 
the cathedral Jasper plied him with liquor which 
he had brought, to such purpose that Durdles went 
fast asleep and the key of the crypt fell from his 
hand. He had a dim idea that Jasper picked up 
the key and went away with it, and was a long time 
gone, but when he awoke he could not tell whether 
this had really happened or not. And this, when 
The Deputy stoned him home that night, was all 
he could remember of the expedition. 

But what Jasper had really done while Durdles 
was asleep — whether he had taken away the key 
to make a copy of it so as to make one like it for 
some evil purpose of his own, or whether he 
wanted to be able to unlock that dark underground 
place and hide something in it sometime when no 
one would be with him — this only Jasper himself 
knew ! 

The Christmas season arrived, and Edwin 
Drood, according to his promise, came to Cloister- 
ham to his uncle's dinner, at which he was to meet 
Neville. 

Before leaving, however, he called upon Mr. 
Grewgious, Rosebud's guardian, who had sent for 
him w^ith a particular purpose. This purpose was 
to give into his hands a ring set with diamonds and 
rubies that had belonged to Rosebud's mother. It 
451 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

had been left in trust to Mr. Grewgious to give to 
the man who married her, that he might himself 
put it on her finger. And in accordance with the 
trust, the lawyer charged Drood if anything should 
be amiss or if anything happened between him and 
Rosebud, to bring back the ring. 

Mr. Grewgious gave him this keepsake with 
such wise and friendly advice on the seriousness 
of marriage that all the way to Cloisterham with 
the ring in his pocket, Edwin Drood was very 
thoughtful. He asked himself whether he really 
loved Rosebud as a man should love his wife, 
whether he had not drifted into this betrothal 
rather as a result of their parents' wish and wills 
than from any deeper feeling. And he began to 
wonder if by marrying her thus he would not be 
doing her a vast injustice. He decided, therefore, 
to tell her all that was in his mind and be guided 
by her judgment. 

Rosebud, meanwhile, in the silence of the 
Christmas vacation, with only Helena for her com- 
panion, had been thinking of the same matter, and 
her wise little head had reached almost the same 
conclusion. When Drood came they walked out 
together under the trees by the cathedral. Their 
talk was not so difficult after all as each had feared 
it would be, and both felt relieved when they de- 
cided they could be far happier to remain as 
brother and sister, and not become husband and 

wife. So they agreed without pain on either side. 
452 



THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD 

Drood's only anxiety was for his uncle. He 
thought Jasper had looked forward to his mar- 
riage to Rosebud so long that he would be pained 
and disappointed to learn it was not to be. So he 
concluded he would not tell him as yet. Poor 
Rosebud! She was greatly agitated. She felt the 
falseness of Jasper, and knew that he loved her 
himself, but she realized the impossibility of tell- 
ing this to the nephew who believed in him. So she 
was silent. Drood, for his part, since the betrothal 
was ended, said nothing to her of the ring Grew- 
gious had given to him, intending to return it to 
the lawyer. 

They kissed each other when they parted. The 
wricked choir master, who happened to be walking 
near, saw the embrace and thought it the kiss of 
lovers soon to be wed. Drood left Rosebud then, 
to pass the time till the hour of the dinner in 
Jasper's rooms. 

Neville that day had determined, the dinner 
over, to start at dawn next morning on a walking 
tour, to be absent a fortnight. He bought a knap- 
sack and a heavy steel-shod stick In preparation 
for this expedition, and bade his sister Helena and 
Mv. Crisparkle good-by before he went to the ap- 
pointed meeting at the choir master's. 

Jasper himself, it was noticed, had never seemed 
in better spirits than on that day, nor had he ever 
sung more sweetly than in the afternoon service 
before the dinner which he gave to the two young 

453 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

men. If he was contemplating a terrible crime, 
no one would have guessed it from his serene face 
and his agreeable manner. 

Edwin Drood had one warning just before he 
went up the postern stair that led to his Uncle 
Jasper's. The old hag who mixed the opium in 
the London garret where the choir master smoked 
the drug, had more than once tried to find out who 
her strange, gentlemanly visitor was. She had 
listened to his mutterings in his drunken slumber, 
and at length that day had followed him from 
London to Cloisterham, only to lose track of him 
there. As Drood strolled, waiting for the dinner 
hour to strike from the cathedral chimes, he passed 
her and she begged money from him. 

He gave it to her and she asked him his name 
and whether he had a sweetheart. He answered 
Edwin, and that he had none. "Be thankful your 
name's not Ned," she said, "for it's a bad name and 
a threatened name!" 

"Ned" was the name Jasper always called him 
by, but Drood did not think seriously of the old 
woman's words. He could not have guessed that 
the threats she spoke of against the Ned who had a 
sweetheart had been murmured in his drugged 
slumber by his own uncle against himself. And 
yet something at just that moment made him shud- 
der. 

So the chimes struck, and Edwin Drood went 
on to Jasper's rooms to meet his ungle and Neville 

454 



THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD 

Landless — went to his doom! For from that time 
no one who loved him ever saw him again in this 
world! 

IV 

JASPER SHOWS HIS TEETH 

That night a fearful tempest howled over Clois- 
terham. In the morning early, as the storm was 
breaking, Jasper, the choir master, came pale, 
panting and half-dressed, to Mr. Crisparkle's, 
asking for Edwin Drood. He said his nephew had 
left his rooms the evening before with Neville 
Landless to go to the river to look at the storm, and 
had not returned. 

Strange rumors sprang up at once. Neville had 
left for his walking tour and an ugly suspicion flew 
from house to house. He had got only a few miles 
from the town when he was overtaken by a party 
of men, who surrounded him. Thinking at first 
that they were thieves, he fought them, but was 
soon rendered helpless and bleeding, and in the 
midst of them was taken back toward Cloisterham. 
Mr. Crisparkle and Jasper met them on the way, 
and from the former Neville first learned of what 
he was suspected. 

The blood from his encounter with his captors 
was on his clothes and stick. Jasper pointed it 
out, and even those who had seen it fall there 
looked darkly at the stains. He was taken. back 

455 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

to the town and to Mr. Crisparkle's house, who 
promised that he should remain in his own cus- 
tody. 

Neville's story was simple. He said they had 
gone to the river, as Jasper had said, and returned 
together, he to Mr. Crisparkle's, Edwin Drood 
to his uncle's. He had not seen the other since that 
time. 

The river was dragged and its banks searched, 
but to no purpose, till Mr. Crisparkle himself 
found Drood's watch caught among some timbers 
in a weir. 

But as the body could not be found, it could not 
be definitely proven that Drood was dead, or that 
any murder had been committed, so at last Neville 
was released. The whole neighborhood, however, 
believed him guilty of the murder. No one spoke 
to him and he was obliged to quit the place. 

Beside his sister Helena and Rosebud, who, of 
course, believed in his innocence, he had but one 
friend there — Mr. Crisparkle. The latter stoutly 
refused to believe him guilty. When Neville 
left for London, through Mr. Grewgious, Rose- 
bud's guardian, the minister found him a cheap 
lodging and made frequent trips to the city to help 
and advise him in his studies. 

Mr. Grewgious had his own opinion of the af- 
fair. One day he went to Cloisterham to see 
Jasper, and there told him a thing the other did 
not yet know — that before that last night Edwin 
456 



THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD 

Drood and Rosebud had agreed not to marry. 
When he heard this the choir master's face turned 
the color of lead. He shrieked and fell senseless at 
the lawyer's feet. Mr. Grewgious went back to 
the city more thoughtful than ever, and it was not 
long before a detective came from London to 
Cloisterham and began to interest himself in all 
the doings of John Jasper. 

The detective, to be sure, was not known as such. 
He called himself ''Dick Datchery" and gave it 
out that he was an idle dog who lived on his money 
and had nothing to do. He was a curious-looking 
man, with a great shock of white hair, black eye- 
brows and a military air. He rented lodgings next 
door to the choir master, and before long had made 
friends with Durdles, the tombstone maker, and 
even with The Deputy of the "wake-cock warn- 
ing." 

Meanwhile Jasper, haggard and red-eyed, took 
again his place in the cathedral choir, while 
Neville Landless worked sadly and alone in his 
London garret. The latter made but one friend 
in this time — a lodger whose window adjoined his 
own. This lodger was Lieutenant Tartar, a re- 
tired young naval officer. Tartar might have 
lived in fine apartments, for he was rich, but he 
had been so long on shipboard that he felt more at 
home where the walls were low enough for him to 
knock his head on the ceiling. He used to climb 
across to Neville's room by the window ledges, and 

457 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

they became friendly — the warmer friends when 
Mr. Crisparkle discovered in the lieutenant a 
schoolmate who had once saved his life. 

Later, too, Helena left Miss Twinkleton's Semi- 
nary and came to be with her brother. And so a 
year went by. 

Vacation arrived, and one day when Rosebud 
was alone at Nun's House, Jasper, for the first time 
since Edwin Drood's disappearance, came to see 
her. 

He found her in the garden, and she felt again 
the repulsion and fear she had always felt at sight 
of him. This time the choir master threw away all 
concealment. He told her that he had always loved 
her hopelessly and madly, though while she was 
betrothed to his nephew he had hidden the fact. 
She answered indignantly that, by look if not by 
word, he had always been false to Edwin Drood; 
that he had made her life unhappy by his pursuit 
of her, and that, though she had shrunk from open- 
ing his nephew's eyes, she had always known he 
was a wicked man. 

Then, maddened by her dislike, Jasper swore 
that no one else should ever marry her — that- he 
would pursue her to the death, and that if she re- 
pulsed him he would bring dreadful ruin upon 
Neville Landless. He said this, no doubt, know- 
ing that Neville loved Rosebud, and thinking, per- 
haps, that she loved him in return. 

When Jasper left her, Rosebud was faint from, 
458 



THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD 

fear of his wicked eyes. She made up her mind to 
go at once for protection to Mr. Grewgious in 
London, and, leaving a note for Miss Twinkleton, 
she left by the next omnibus. 

She told her guardian her story, he told it to 
Mr. Crisparkle, who came to London next morn- 
ing, and between them they told Lieutenant Tar- 
tar. While Rosebud visited with Helena the three 
men took counsel together, agreeing that Jasper 
was a villain and planning how best to deal with 
him. 

The next time the choir master visited the opium 
garret the old woman tracked him back to Clois- 
terham, with more success — with such success, in- 
deed, that she heard him sing in the cathedral and 
found out his name from a stranger whom she en- 
countered. This stranger was Dick Datchery, the 
detective, who discovered so much, before he left 
her, of Jasper's London habits that he went home 
in high good humor. 

Datchery had a trick, whenever he was follow- 
ing a particular search, of marking each step of 
his progress by a chalk mark on a wall or door. 
To-day he must have been highly pleased, for he 
drew a thick line from the very top of the cup- 
board door to the bottom ! 

When Charles Dickens, the master story-teller, 
had told this tale thus far, he fell ill and died, and 
it "was never finished, The mystery of the disap- 
459 



TALES FROM DICKENS 

pearance of Edwin Drood, what became of Rose- 
bud and of Mr. Crisparkle, how Neville and 
Helena fared and what was the end of Jasper, are 
matters for each one of us to guess. Many have 
tried to finish this story and they have ended it in 
various ways. Before Dickens died, however, he 
told to a friend the part of the story that remained 
unwritten, and this, the friend has recorded, was 
to be as follows: 

By means of the old woman of the opium den, 
Durdles, the tombstone maker, and The Deputy, 
the ragged stone-thrower, Dick Datchery unrav- 
eled the threads which finally, made into a net, 
caught Jasper, the murderer, in its meshes. Little 
by little, word by word, he was made at last to be- 
tray himself. 

He had killed Edwin Drood, had hidden his 
body in one of the vaults and covered it with lime. 
But there had been one thing in the dead man's 
pocket which the lime could not destroy: this was 
the ring set with diamonds and rubies, that had 
been given to him by Mr. Grewgious. By this the 
murder was proven. Mr. Crisparkle and Mr. 
Grewgious worked hard to clear Neville Landless 
(of whose guilt, by the way, Mr. Honeythunder 
remained always sure), but poor Neville himself 
perished in aiding Lieutenant Tartar to seize the 
murderer. 

Finding all hope of escape gone, Jasper con- 
460 



THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD 

fessed his crime in the cell in which he waited for 
death. 

But, after all, the story closed happily, with the 
marriage of Mr. Crisparkle to Neville's sister 
Helena, and that of Lieutenant Tartar to pretty 
little Rosebud. 



461 



INDEX TO CHARACTERS 



INDEX TO CHARACTERS 



Affery 

Agnes 

Allen, Arabella 

Allen, Ben 

"Artful Dodger, The" 

Bag STOCK, Major 

Bantam, Angelo Cyrus 

Barbell, Mrs. 

Barkis 

Barnaby Rudge 

Barnacle, Mr. Tite 

Barsad 

Bevan 

Biddy 

Blackpool, Stephen 

B limber, Doctor 

Boffin, Mr. 

Boffin, Mrs. 

Bounderby, Josiah 

Boythorn, Mr. 

Brass 

Brass, Sally 

Bray 

Bray, Madeline 

Brownlow, Mr. 

Bud, Rosa 

Budger, Mrs. 

Bumble, Mr. 

Bumble, Mrs. 

BuzFuz, Sergeant 



Little Dorrit 

David Copperiield 

Pickzvick Papers 

Pickwick Papers 

Oliver Twist 

Dombey and Son 

Pickwick Papers 

Pickwick Papers 

David Coppcrfield 

Barnaby Rudge 

Little Dorrit 

Tale of Two Cities 

Martin Chusslewit 

Great Expectations 

Hard Times 

Dombey and Son 

Our Mutual Friend 

Our Mutual Friend 

Hard Times 

Bleak House 

Old Curiosity Shop 

Old Curiosity Shop 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Oliver Twist 

Edwin Drood 

Pickwick Papers 

Oliver Tzvist 

Oliver Twist 

Pickwick Papers 



465 



INDEX TO CHARACTERS 



Carker 

Carstone, Richard 

Carton, Sydney 

Cheeryble Brothers, The 

Chester, Edward 

Chester, Sir John 

Chivery, John 

Chuffey 

Chuzzlewit 

Chuzzlewit, Martin 

Clare, Ada 

Clennam, Arthur 

Clennam, Mr, 

Clennam, Mrs. 

Compeyson 

Copperfield, David 

Creakle, Mr. 

Crisparkle, Reverend Mr. 

Crummles, Mrs. 

Crummles, Ninetta 

Crummles, Vincent 

Cuttle, Captain 

Darnay, Charles 

Datchery, Dick 

Dedlock, Lady 

Dedlock, Sir Leicester 

Defarge 

Defarge, Madame 

Dennis 

"Deputy, The" 

"Dick, Mr." 

"Diogenes" 

"Dodger, The Artful" 

Dombey, Florence 

Do M BEY, Mr. 



Dombey and Son 

Bleak House 

Tale of Two Cities 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Barnaby Rudge 

Barnaby Rudge 

Little Dorrit 

Martin Chuzzlewit 

Martin Chuzzlewit 

Martin Chuzzlewit 

Bleak House 

Little Dorrit 

Little Dorrit 

Little Dorrit 

Great Expectations 

David Copperfield 

David Copperiield 

Edwin Drood 
t 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Dombey and Son 

Tale of Two Cities 

Edwin Drood 

Bleak House 

Bleak House 

Tale of Two Cities 

Tale of Two Cities 

Barnaby Rudge 

Edwin Drood 

David Copperiield 

Dombey and Son 

Oliver Twist 

Dombey and Son 

Dombey and Son 



4IS6 



INDEX TO CHARACTERS 



DoMBEY, Paul 

DoRRiT, Amy 

DoRRiT, Fanny 

"DoRRiT, Little" 

DoRRiT, Mr. 

DoRRiT, "Tip" 

DowLER, Mr. 

DowLER, Mrs. 

Doyce 

Drood, Edwin 

Durdles 

"Em'ly, Little" 

Estella 

Fagin 

"Fat Boy, The" 

"Father of the Marshalsea, The" 

"FiTz- Mars HALL, Mr." 

"Fitz-Marshall, Captain" 

Flintwinch 

Flite, Miss 

"Floy" 

Gabelle 

Gamp, "Sairey" 

Gargery, Joe 

Gargery, Mrs. 

Gash ford 

Gay, Walter 

General, Mrs. 

"George, Mr." 

"Golden Dustman, The" 

Gordon, Lord George 

Gills, Solomon 

Gradgrind, Louisa 

Gradgrind, Mr. 

Gradgrind, Mrs. 



Domhey and Son 

Little Dorrit 

Little Dorrit 

Little Dorrit 

Little Dorrit 

Little Dorrit 

Pickwick Papers 

Pickwick Papers 

Little Dorrit 

Edwin Drood 

Edwin Drood 

David Cop per Held 

Great Expectations 

Oliver Twist 

Pickwick Papers 

Little Dorrit 

Pickwick Papers 

Pickwick Papers 

Little Dorrit 

Bleak House 

Dombey and Son 

Tale of Two Cities 

Martin Chusslewit 

Great Expectations 

Great Expectations 

Barnaby Rudge 

Dombey and Son 

Little Dorrit 

Bleak House 

Our Mutual Friend 

Barnaby Rudge 

Dombey and Son 

Hard Times 

Hard Times 

Hard Times 



467 



INDEX TO CHARACTERS 



Gradgrind, Tom 

Graham, Mary 

Grandfather Smallweed 

Granger, Edith 

Grewgious, Mr, 

Gride 

"Grip" 

Gum MIDGE, Mrs. 

Ham 

Haredale, Emma 

Haredale, Geoffrey 

Harmon, John 

Harmon, Mr. 

"Harris, Mrs." 

Harthouse, James 

Havisham, Miss 

Hawdon, Captain 

Hawk, Sir Mulberry 

Headstone 

Heep, Uriah 

Hexam 

Hexam, Charlie 

Hexam, Lizzie 

Honeythunder, Luke 

Hortense 

"Hugh, Maypole" 

Hunter, Mrs. Leo 

"Infant Phenomenon, The" 

Jaggers, Mr. 

Jarley, Mrs. 

Jarndyce, Mr. 

Jasper, John 

Jellyby, Caddy 

Jellyby, Mrs. 

"Jenny Wren" 



Hard Times 

Martin Chusslewit 

Bleak House 

Dombey and Son 

Edzvin Drood 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Barnaby Rudge 

David Copperiicld 

David CopperHeld 

Barnaby Rudge 

Barnaby Rudge 

Our Mutual Friend 

Our Mutual Friend 

Martin Chusslewit 

Hard Times 

Great Expectations 

Bleak House 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Our Mutual Friend 

David CopperHeld 

Our Mutual Friend 

Our Mutual Friend 

Our Mutual Friend 

Edwin Drood 

Bleak House 

Barnaby Rudge 

Pickwick Papers 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Great Expectations 

Old Curiosity Shop 

Bleak House 

Edwin Drood 

Bleak House 

Bleak House 

Our Mutual Friend 



INDEX TO CHARACTERS 



Jingle, Alfred 

Joe 

Joe 

"Joe, Mrs." 

Jonas 

JuPE, Cecelia 

"JuPE, Signor" 

"Kit" 

Knag, Miss 

Krook 

"Lady Jane" 

Landless, Helena 

Landless, Neville 

"Little Em'ly" 

"Little Nell" 

"Little Paul" 

Lorry, Mr. 

Maggie 

Magnus, Mr. Peter 

Magwitch, Abel 

Manette, Doctor 

Manette, Lucie 

Mantalini, Mr. 

Mantalini, Madame 

Mary 

Maylie, Mrs. 

"Maypole Hugh" 

M'Choakumchild, Mr. 

Meagles, Mr, 

Meagles, Mrs. 

Meagles, "Pet" 

Merdle, Mr. 

Merdle, Mrs. 

"Merrylegs" 

Micawber, Mr. 



Pickwick Papers 

Pickwick Papers 

Bleak House 

Great Expectations 

Martin Chtisdcwit 

Hard Times 

Hard Times 

Old Curiosity Shop 

Nicholas Nicklcby 

Bleak House 

Bleak House 

Edwin Drood 

Edwin Drood 

David Copper-field 

Old Curiosity Shop 

Dombey and Son 

Tale of Two Cities 

Little Dorrit 

Pickwick Papers 

Great Expectations 

Tale of Two Cities 

Tale of Two Cities 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Pickwick Papers 

Oliver Twist 

Barnaby Rudge 

Hard Times 

Little Dorrit 

Little Dorrit 

Little Dorrit 

Little Dorrit 

Little Dorrit 

Hard Times 

David CopperHeld 



469 



INDEX TO CHARACTERS 



Monks 

Montague, Tigg 
MuRDSTONE, Miss 

MURDSTONE, Mr. 

Nadgett 
Nancy 

"Nell, Little" 
"Nemo" 

NicKLEBY, Kate 
Nickleby, Mrs. 
NicKLEBY, Nicholas 
Nickleby, Ralph 

NOGGS 

Nubbles, Christopher 

NUPKINS 

Nuprins, Miss 

NuPKiNS, Mrs. 

"Old Sol" 

Orlick 

Pancks 

"Paul, Little" 

Pecksniff 

Pecksniff, Charity 

Pecksniff, Mercy 

Peggotty 

Peggotty, Mr. 

"Pegler, Mrs." 

Pickwick, Mr. Samuel 

Pinch, Tom 

Pinch, Ruth 

"Pip" 

Pipchin, Mrs. 

Pirrip, Philip 

Pocket, Herbert 

Pocket, Mr. 



Oliver Twist 

Martin Chuszlewit 

David Copper-field 

David CopperHeld 

Martin Chuszlewit 

Oliver Twist 

Old Curiosity Shop 

Bleak House 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Old Curiosity Shop 

Pickwick Papers 

Pickwick Papers 

Pickwick Papers 

Dombey and Son 

Great Expectations 

Little Dorrit 

Dombey and Son 

Martin Chuszlewit 

Martin Chuszlewit 

Martin Chusslewit 

David CopperReld 

David Copperfield 

Hard Times 

Pickwick Papers 

Martin Chuszlewit 

Martin Chuzzlewit 

Great Expectations 

Dombey and Son 

Great Expectations 

Great Expectations 

Great Expectations 



470 



INDEX TO CHARACTERS 



Pocket, Mrs. 
Pross, Miss 

PUMBLECHOOK, UnCLE 
QuiLP 

QuiLP, Mrs. 
Rachel 

RiGAUD 

RiDERHooD, "Rogue" 
"RoKESMiTH," John 
"Rosebud" 
Rose, Miss 
Rouncewell, Mrs. 

RUDGE 

RUDGE, BaRNABY 

RuDGE, Mrs. 

St. Evremonde, Charles 

St. Evremonde, Marquis de 

Sawyer, Bob 

SiKES, Bill 

"Sissy" 

Skimpole, Harold 

Slammer, Doctor 

Sleary 

Smallweed, Grandfather 

Smallweed, Mrs. 

Smike 

Snodgrass 

"Sol, Old" 

Sparsit, Mrs. 

Spenlow, Dora 

Squeers 

Squeers, Fanny 

Squeers, Mrs. 

Squeers, Wackford 

Steerforth, James 



Great Expectations 

Tale of Two Cities 

Great Expectations 

Old Curiosity Shop 

Old Curiosity Shop 

Hard Times 

Little Dorrit 

Our Mutual Friend 

Our Mutual Friend 

Edwin Drood 

Oliver Twist 

Bleak House 

Barnaby Rudge 

Barnaby Rudge 

Barnaby Rudge 

Tale of Two Cities 

Tale of Two Cities 

Pickwick Papers 

Oliver Twist 

Hard Times 

Bleak House 

Pickwick Papers 

Hard Times 

Bleak House 

Bleak House 

Nicholas Nicklcby 

Pickwick Papers 

Dombey and Son 

Hard Times 

David CopperHeld 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Nicholas Nickleby 

David CopperAeld 



471 



INDEX TO CHARACTERS 



"Stranger, The" 
Strong, Doctor 
SuMMERsoN, Esther 
SwivELLER, Dick 
Tapley, Mark 
Tappertit, Simon 
Tartar, Lieutenant 
"Tattycoram" 
TiGG, Montague 
Todgers, Mrs. 
Traddles, Tommy 
Trent, Mr. 
Trotter, Job 
Trotwood, Miss Betsy 

TULKINGHORN, Mr. 
TUPMAN 
TURVEYDROP, Mr. 

Turveydrop, Prince 

TWINKLETON, MiSS 

Twist, Oliver 

Uncle Pumblechook 

Varden 

Varden, Dolly 

Veneering, Mr. 

Venus, Mr. 

Verisopht, Lord Frederick 

Vholes 

Wardle, Emily 

Wardle, Mr. 

Wardle, Miss 

Wegg, Silas 

Weller, Mrs, 

Weller, Sam 

Weller, Tony 

Wemmick 



Old Curiosity Shop 

David Copper-field 

Bleak House 

Old Curiosity Shop 

Martin Chuszlewit 

Barnahy Rudge 

Edwin Drood 

Little Dorrit 

Martin Chuadeivit 

Martin Chuszlewxt 

David Copper-field 

Old Curiosity Shop 

Pickwick Papers 

David Copperfield 

Bleak House 

Pickwick Papers 

Bleak House 

Bleak House 

Edwin Drood 

Oliver Twist 

Great Expectations 

Barnaby Rudge 

Barnaby Rudge 

Our Mutual Friend 

Our Mutual Friend 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Bleak House 

Pickwick Papers 

Pickwick Papers 

Pickwick Papers 

Our Mutual Friend 

Pickwick Papers 

Pickwick Papers 

Pickwick Papers 

Great Expectations 



4/2 



INDEX TO CHARACTERS 



Westlock, John 
WicKFiELD, Agnes 

WiCKFIELD, Mr. 

WiLFER, Bella 

WiLFER, Mr. 

WiLLET, Joe 
Winkle 

WiTITTERLY, MrS. 

WooDcouRT, Allan 

WOPSLE 

Wrayburn, Eugene 
"Wren, Jennie" 



Martin Chuszlewit 

David Copperfield 

David Copperfield 

Our Mutual Friend 

Our Mutual Friend 

Barnaby Rudge 

Pickwick Papers 

Nicholas Nickleby 

Bleak House 

Great Expectations 

Our Mutual Friend 

Our Mutual Friend 



473 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




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